


Midheaven

by 78424325



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78424325/pseuds/78424325
Summary: Seeking freedom, he left with a family heirloom at his waist. But when the blade leads to the next target...





	1. Inauguration

_Southern Agustria, 1520._

 

Sounds of metals clashing with each other could be heard across the courtyard. The sun was about to tilt deeper when a merry chuckle added more color into the scene, followed by someone grunting heavily to restore his breathing to normal. Two men dressed in simple white cotton blouses; their sleeves were rolled elbow-length, and they wore sturdy combat boots to pair with their breeches. They each wore a breastplate to protect their chests.

They were not alone. There was a group of people separating themselves to form two sides—some to the left following a blond-haired swordsman who chuckled some seconds prior while the rest stood behind the other swordsman with dark chestnut-brown hair, who was now busy salvaging his nose after getting hit with a sword hilt. There were two other people waiting from a considerable distance at the swordsmen’s respective sides; both helped carrying each swordsman’s coat they took off the moment they entered the courtyard. Two other people watched the swordsmen closely with a bowl of water and clean rag hanging on the crook of their elbows. The rest of the group formed a loose circle around the courtyard as if anticipating in case things had gone awry and being observant of the mock-fight at the same time.

At first, the brown-haired swordsman strolled into the courtyard, walking behind his counterpart. The blond-haired swordsman did not say anything, but a look was enough to tell that his younger counterpart was troubled. He, however, was keen enough to know that the younger man was never much a talker when it came to his personal thoughts and emotions, so they settled in the way only they could—with a sword.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he had said then before quickly unsheathing his weapon. There was a small smile on his lips when the younger man—the blond swordsman, the younger master in the household—gasped a little before composing himself in a heartbeat.

As expected, the young lord made a quick response. Not only did he unhook a shiny broadsword resting idly by his waist at a magnificent speed, the brown-haired knight felt explosive blow hammering against him when his young master swung back his scabbard as the first line of reflexive defense anticipating for a follow-up attack. “Never, ever, point a naked blade at a lion, Sir Alva.”

The brown-haired knight simply smiled. His young master returned the courtesy, although the former would so gladly call it a smirk rather than a smile. He waited patiently when the blonde quickly unclasped the tassels which secured his comfortable, sturdy leather coat, passing it to a nearby servant which had been standing on standby in silence all along. When the blond young lord made a gesture similar to an initial readying stance, he could not help but smiling wider, rolling his own coat to another servant which stopped by at the courtyard. “I’m here at the behest of Lady Nanna, my lord,” the brown-haired knight, whom previously addressed as Alva, responded. “Her Ladyship was pretty concerned because you did not touch the wine we prepared for you in the morning.”

“She worries too much,” the blonde scoffed. “My appetite is fine and I’m at my prime.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Her Ladyship,” the knight nodded courteously.

“If anything, I feel going on rounds myself,” the blonde went on. “Say, Sir Alva. I should be overjoyed because my father planned a celebration to commemorate my ascension to manhood, and yet…”

“Your Lordship probably share Her Ladyship’s trait,” the knight replied lightly. “Is there a problem, my lord, rather than finding happiness at the ripe age of twenty-one? Is there anything you find lacking here in the castle, or are you concerned of the events for tomorrow?”

“None as such. Our home has stood proudly against all challenges and attacks for generations. Prospective invaders should be aware we are not the one to be taken lightly,” the blonde contemplated on his sword. “Never thought I would dread my own birthday like this—I want to fight something.”

“I can help you with that as well, my lord.”

The blonde tilted his head at the knight. Alva was one of the triplets to make his father’s most loyal retainers and courtiers, specifically assigned for the personal protection of his aunt in the age past. Now that the whole family had gathered for a feast his father planned for him, even the knights could use some time to pamper themselves.

And oh, he sure accepted the offer. The moment the knight was done rolling his sleeves up, he trod the ground, keeping the blade unsheathed and naked. He did a fencing stance, and when his knight put up a steady stance himself, the blond young lord charged forward in a heartbeat. It did not take long for the servants to hear another sound of clashed metals. The knight blocked all the advances but the young lord sure was a contender for the knight’s years of honed experiences. His strikes were swift and his blows powerful; it did not take long for the knight to start losing breath while the blonde merely sweated as he put more power in his swings and pushed for faster paces in his footwork.

“I yield,” the knight raised his hand when the young lord’s blade powerfully forced his out of his grasp.

“Thank you, Sir Alva,” the young lord nodded in a knightly manner, catching the flying sword his sparring partner could not wield anymore. Servants began to walk closer, bringing the water bowls and towels they had been carrying the moment it was clear that their young lord wanted to spend a muscle there.

“My lord,” the knight bowed, waiting on the blonde to be attended to first before he took turn letting the servants to refresh him. “Did that take your mind away a little bit?”

“A little bit,” the blond-haired young lord replied with a grimace this time. “Listen—I’m not that unaware. I can see where it will go from there. It won’t just be any celebration.”

The knight paused. There was a faint smile on his lips when his young master circled the courtyard again like a restless horse. He had been with the household even long before the young master was born, and after a few interactions they first had since his boyhood, the commander of the household cavalry understood that his young master was akin to a lion cub—eager and curious, but with a streak of ferocity ready to swipe over everything the way wildfire consumed the grass. The young master was about four or five when his father the duke took him to the training ground, introducing him to the horses while the household cavalry were having an equestrian training.

Duke Eldigan merely smiled as he took little Lord Ares’ hand in his while all his servants and squires panicked, supervising their young master in case the heir to the dukedom of Nordion touched one of the polished, sharp weapons in the armory or startled a horse. “I have utmost confidence in my son,” the duke remarked with his serene lordly demeanor as always. “And you should too.”

Young Lord Ares of Nordion had unhesitatingly grabbed a pair of cesti. While everyone else gave a wary look, he conveniently walked approaching him, holding the boxing gloves as big as his head. “Are you one of the knights in service to my father?”

“Certainly, my lord. I am called Alva.”

“Interesting. You did not tell me to stay away from these weapons like the others.”

“Who am I to curb Your Lordship’s interest?” he replied with a smile. “But just in case—I’m here as well.”

“Hmmm. Then I like you to put this on me,” the little boy raised the gloves higher then.

He had quirked an eyebrow at the duke, who watched everything with an amused expression in his eyes. The duke simply took the little boy to wander somewhere else, treating him to the rich view of various formations his prided cross knights trained to march in. When the sun tilted to set, the young lord retired with his father to the private compartments of the sovereign, grinning because the duke had let him to keep the padded clothing squires wore when they trained and sparred melee. Needless to say the day saw the beginning of the duke’s effort to shape his only child and heir to be a knightly warrior as he saw fit—the older the young lord got, the more his strength began showing and his prowess followed shortly after. The duke had him trained for the swords and lances, the former he took most liking in compared to his other studies.

“Ares?”

The loyal knight stopped musing when another voice barked in. Under the weak, orange sunlight of the late afternoon another figure calmly stepped into the courtyard. He carried his walk in a dignified manner—not making a sound, standing sharp and straight with a touch of courtesy and prudence at the same time. Servants tilted their heads upon hearing the voice they had known for all these decades, quickly dropping into bows and curtsies as their household cavalry commander made the first bow.

“Your Grace,” the knight muttered.

“My lord father,” the lion cub quickly followed suit, head bowing low in an utmost deferring manner.

Duke Eldigan had arrived at the courtyard. The sovereign of Nordion dukedom as well as the King’s trusted Sword—nicknamed as the Lionheart by his admiring courtiers and army—curved his lips. He did not need to ask what his precious heir had done at the courtyard. The moment his niece Lady Nanna informed—somewhat worried—that she could not find their dear Ares, he reassured her that their Ares was pretty predictable—at least for him, the father. He did not rush. He knew he would find his heir there, and his prediction was not at all amiss. The lion cub reminded him of his younger self—potent with a streak for freedom he found in the camaraderie of his loyal friends for life whose companies he had kept since their golden days at the military academy, clashing swords, pointing lances, exchanging punches with Crown Prince Quan of Leonster and Marquis Sigurd of Chalphy—traded arrow shots, now this one, none of them mastered.

“What assessment do you have of my son, Sir Alva?” the duke, still calm and composed as always, started talking again as he raised a hand to signify the people around him to rise up.

“Your Grace, His Lordship is not lacking in swordplay,” the knight responded confidently. “Based on the latest reports including judging from the way he marched and led Your Grace’s cross knights I can be sure that Lord Ares makes a fine equestrian as well—he is suited to fight mounted like you, Sire.”

“And does he make a decent pugilist as well?”

“Oh,” the knight blurted out. “I did not test that, Sire.”

“Then let me.”

The duke calmly walked closer, approaching his heir, still waiting at the middle of the courtyard. Servants bowed again, preceded by Alva, and they quickly got into position to begin undressing him—taking his velvet overdress off him, rolling his sleeves as well, tucking his cravat behind his collar. Another servant approached with two pairs of cesti, fixing them on the duke. Another servant nearly tripped on his shoes bearing another padded cloth for training after the courtiers hastily informed that the duke himself was interested to spar.

“No need,” the duke simply waved his hand when a squire took over the padded cloth, holding it up ready to arm the Nordion sovereign. “Ares?”

“Yes, Father,” the lion cub approached closer, bowing a little bit in respect when he took the cesti from the formidable warrior. “Then I have no need of this as well,” he tossed the padded cloth on the ground. His father was there, waiting while servants began dispersing to make a room for them.

Lord Ares of Nordion looked at the waiting Lionheart, whom by then already got into a readying stance. Just like that, he reflexively pushed a bile down his throat. There was always something… subtly fierce the moment his prudent father shifted into a combat-ready position. He had witnessed him under the sun, armored, leading the troops—probably too many times for him to pick each moment apart. His father was an ideal knight when he was being with the family—courteous and chivalrous, yet the moment he was out at the field, chivalry evolved into a lordly demeanor, and such courtesy contained potent ferocity underneath, ready to be unleashed at an advancing enemy. The King had asked southern Agustria, which lands majorly fell under Nordion’s jurisdiction—to assist his imperial troops to curb pirates from the south while the north was busy to fight different gangs from Orgahill. At that time, no question asked, the lionhearted duke swiftly changed into armor, replacing his favorite velvet coat with sturdy breastplate after a thick layer of chainmail; his sharp, narrowing hazel-reddish copper eyes spared a gentle, gentle look on him and his mother before shifting into a ferocious gaze of a lion as he put on his helmet to cover his face. From a tower window, little Ares watched as his father’s cross knights and paladins rode to combat, returning around a month later still in armor—a bit exhausted from the trip, but not dull.

“Welcome home,” little Ares found his mother’s words shuddered. He waited warily, vividly recalling the merciless knightly salute his father made when returning the same courtesy from his soldiers. He did not really know what combat was like back then. But he knew people usually had that kind of look when they were angry—truly angry—the kind of look his father never spared to anyone at the household. His father did not raise his voice—let alone hands—to a family member. And definitely not to his mother, which he stressed to him as part of his upbringing as often as he could remember.

And at that time, those eyes returned to the initial state as he remembered—merciful. The kind of same feeling which made him feel safe and protected every time the duke scooped him on horseback. And little Ares, age seven, began taking notes on other things—like how his mother unclasped Lord Father’s helmet to kiss him, or how the Lionheart’s smile was kinder than moonlight when he muttered a simple reply to return his mother’s… heartfelt reaction.

“I am home.”

Just like that, there was no such a thing as the Lionheart—simply ‘Lord Father Papa’ because he started his education in courtly matters, but ah, boy aged seven would still love to sit on his father’s shoulders.

“What are you waiting for, my cub?” the Lionheart’s calm voice broke his reverie. Startled, he fixed his gloves, tightening the clasps around his wrists. “A knight must be prepared under any circumstances.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Can it be that you are afraid of me?” the Lionheart spoke again, gentler this time.

He contained his gasp tightly in his throat. Was he? Admittedly, a sight of the Lionheart there was… intimidating. His father was a stellar fighter and seemed to excel at anything he did, earning adoration as well as jealousy even from his fellow lordly peers. As caring as he was as a father and husband, it was from the Lionheart how he first learned to take another person’s life with his blade, or broke another man’s eye socket with his fist. Of course he trained too—after all, he did like these activities, the feeling like he could do something on his own, as his own person without the Lionheart’s name following him. It was fun to master level after level in the arts of combat, it was fun to know he was capable of warfare, and definitely it felt great when his younger cousins praised his prowess because that would mean they believed in him. When his aunt said how she reminded him of the younger Lionheart, however, half of his heart beat with pride while another… sunk.

“I am not Lord Father, my lady aunt,” at that time he politely scoffed. Or so he thought.

“There is no need to be shy, Ares,” his aunt, Lady Lachesis, smiled as she ruffled his mane. “Looking at you like this, he will not be disappointed.”

 _I am no Lionheart,_ he thought again. _And tomorrow as they feast on my birthday I shall be Marquis Ares of Nordion, Prince of Agustria, the heir presumptive to my father’s sovereignty here._

“You are a peerless warrior, Father,” the young lord finally mustered a neutral answer.

“I thank you for the praise, my cub, but that wasn’t my question,” the Lionheart responded. “Well?”

“… You are the Lionheart,” the young lord spoke again, his eyes traveled to the family heirloom of a curious black broadsword which neatly rested by his father’s waist, dangling on his belt. “With such reputation and capability, how could one not be?”

The Lionheart paused a little. Somehow the dispersing clouds above took him back to the same corridor, years ago when he demanded his cub to do a riposte when he purposefully only half-blocked his thrust. There was doubt, indeed, shadowing over his cub. And to think it had to be now of all other times… “You know what I used to say back then?”

“… Yes. You said fear grants half of defeat,” the young lord threw his mane behind his shoulders uneasily. “It’s not that I’m not confident in my skills, Father. But—it’s you. You are my opponent of the day.”

“Ares,” the Lionheart walked closer, even calmer, calmer than prior. “How are you going to rule this land if you are still concerned by trivial matter like that? A pupil advances by facing off his teacher.”

“Father…”

“A lion does not give birth to a dove,” the duke slammed his cesti against each other. “Defeat me.”

The young lord contemplated his own cesti. Loosening his own buttons, he finally looked up, exhaling heavily hoping to drain all his insecurities with the breath he released. “The honor is mine, Father.”

The Lionheart smiled. He saw the change in his heir’s demeanor—what previously sounded floating became stable and ready, the way he thought resolve burned slowly in the cub’s eyes when he came closer. He had to do this. Lions did not raise their cubs just by friendly frolicking gestures—they plunged the cub into a predatory situation to see how the cub fared with it and prevailed against its opponents. He did not throw his heir that way—after all, his own father raised him rather harshly and he had made a silent vow with himself that his own children would not have to experience the same hellish training he did. He swore he would bring up his children under a kinder environment, and duties aside, he would so love to tackle his heir into a tight embrace now— _look at you, my cub, strong and reliable as a warrior; someone who knows his sword and horse like I do._

His son tensed when he looked at him—sparing him not the fatherly look he raised him under, but with the similar look he would carve into his soldiers the moment they rode to combat. And he understood. Despite the gentle urging he demanded of his cub, deep down he realized the sudden change made the cub restless and doubtful. He was not there to be a father, but a mountain to be conquered.

 _Forgive me,_ the duke closed his eyes for a second before making a rapid footwork. He lunged forward, darting a sharp cross-cut which demanded a full hard contact against the young lord’s cheekbones. That worked wonder—his son jolted and startled, but not backing down as if his entire body began to rise from a slumber to answer the challenge. He saw that at the field too, when his soldiers behaved like being yanked off a dream that they made a quick decision, reaction—adapting to the changing environment. And that was good. That would be a good thing, to see the cub woke up slowly and finally accepted his fate to be… a lion.

The younger blonde parried another blow with his forearm. His father hit hard albeit slower than he was; his moves were not wasted because each of them set out with an intention to destroy. Just like the way the Lionheart fought—no mercy against the enemy until they truly yielded and disarmed. And he felt it—the way his father’s strong blows tried to reach him at his body’s vital parts—his throat, his sternum, his liver, his solar plexus—all the real-life feeling which not only trained his wariness and sense of alertness, but also forced him to fight in the utmost potential he could give. This was not a sparring—rather, it was a battle between pugilists, and his father would not stop until each of them was down—

He gasped. The Lionheart’s cestus took him from under the chin. He threw his head, frantically tried to absorb as much oxygen as he could as his waist made a sharp pivoted turn to assist his legs in keeping him on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” the Lionheart ferociously barked at him now. “Why are you squirming?”

“I—“ he drew another deep breath. He should be ready. His father’s blows were hard and that one got him off guard, but they were not… unpredictable.

“Are you a lion or a worm?” the Lionheart bellowed again. “Fight me like _my son_ that you are.”

He breathed in and out. Steady, steady, steady. Closing his eyes for a second he banished his anxiety to oblivion. _Fight the lion like a lion, he said_ —his mind barged into his conscience as he contemplated the cesti. His father was formidable. If someone could take his father down, it would be…

There was a satisfied mischievous grin on his face when he regained his composure. Wiping his forehead, he made a half-turn, giving the impression of trying to take the Lionheart off guard in return. And the Lionheart kept still—experience made him aware of feint attack. He scanned his cub, half-worried, half-anticipating; would he retort to dirty tactics? Did he actually have a plan? Did he learn something which he wasn’t aware of? His cub had no problem mingling with the common folk. He was pretty deliberate about it, aware that this cub was one big curious cat.

And curiosity was the luxury he could not afford in his youth.

His prediction was fulfilled—the cub turned away the moment he was about to strike him again. The Lionheart wore a sad smile then— _Really, Ares? Hit and run? I am disappointed…_

So he balled strong, stern fists with all his might for another sharp cross-cut. This time it would not miss. And Ares would learn that his dear father still valued fighting honorably than coming out victoriously. Too bad. Now he felt like having to spank his child, something he never did and vowed never to.

His golden strands billowed right next to his son’s own golden mane and their eyes met. _He is handsome,_ the Lionheart thought proudly. _But it isn’t just me there—he has his mother’s eyes and her jawlines—_

“Lord Father?”

_Still concerned, Ares?_

“… My utmost apologies.”

The Lionheart blinked.

… No, the cub did not retort to the dirty feint attack he was concerned about prior. If tactical, he could forgive it. But years of expertise made him be able to tell if it was just strategy or actual dirty play. No, the cub did not sneak behind him to take unlikely target such as the nape. No, the cub did not force him to back off by playing dirty either. The cub pivoted to lure his cross-cut closer, and at such sharp angle with such massive power, it would be too late for him to withdraw or turn around—

“Ugh,” the Lionheart grunted. His son neutralized his menacing cross-cuts by making him lose control of his own power, ending everything with a hard, strong jab—right at the cheekbone the way he planned to destroy his cub with prior, with the now-failed cross-cuts.

He had to recover. Ares might be faster or even stronger—but he was experienced, and by no means weak in the most literal definition possible. The great crusader Hezul’s blood ran in his veins—the same crusader who banded with his comrades to take down a powerful empire centuries ago. The side of his face began to throb. As a small smile emerged on his chapped lips, a surge of pride swelled in his chest.

_You are a lion…_

He let out another grunt when something hard and forceful hammered the corner of his lips.

_This fast? That boy recovered quickly._

He drove his knee against the cub’s abdomen, attempting to force him sleeping on the ground with a swift elbow-strike against his nape. But…

He felt power.

Power surged from the area around the navel—sturdy and unyielding akin to a wall blocking a blow inflicted against it. He lost his balance again, and he resigned to Fate when Ares grabbed his powerless arms, ready to ruin his forehead by forcing him to bend down so he could jam his kneecap there.

… And no, his cub did not do that either.

He felt his body tumbled backward, landing crassly against the ground because his cub did not proceed with the plan—releasing him instead. And he, unbalanced and taken off guard, could not salvage himself then.

“Father?!”

His cub managed to catch him before the back of his head hit the bricks.

“Ares…”

“Father—my God, have I been too excessive? I am ashamed! Forgive me, Father—I…”

“No, Ares,” with his eyes half-closed, he was truly, truly chuckling now. His wife would demand a _good_ explanation, of course, as would his sister. He already pictured them bandaging him, drying the blood from the corner of his lips with sullen disapproval expressions on their faces.

“Father…?”

He chuckled. His cub gave him that typical look like he did all these years, grown man or not—innocent with a hint of child-like curiosity. “My dear son,” he cackled with a cough because his cub pounced hard. “My Ares. My cub. I am proud of you.”

“Did you not… begrudge me?” the younger blonde watched him, confused.

“On the contrary,” the Lionheart laughed. His hand traveled to feel the sword at his waist, and with a quick snap he unhooked the curious blade from his belt. “The Mystletainn is yours henceforth.”

His cub opened his mouth—but there was no word coming out; his gaze alternated between looking at him, then the fearsome black sword he conveniently put on his hands, then him again, then…

“Happy birthday, Ares. I'm still and will always be proud of you. What a fine warrior you make. I cannot wish for a better son to cherish,” he enveloped his son in a tight embrace, grinning when the son wiped his eyes as he felt something wet poured on his shirt.


	2. Debut

Lord Ares of Nordion contemplated the black sword at the corner of his room.

It was real—and he still could not believe it. The menacing blade had a rather unlikely shape compared to the typical swords commonly wielded in all of Jugdral—the crossbar had a peculiar shape which reminded him of a bat wing, decorated with a red gem in the middle. The pommel had a green gem and polished with pure gold while the grip was layered with a fabric akin to a velvet cloth in brown color, reducing the strain for the wielder and giving more comfort in the hand. Mystletainn had been in possession of the Nordions for generations—according to the Lionheart, the first wielder of the blade was a crusader warrior who went by the name of Sir Hezul and founded Agustria as a kingdom after his great war against an oppressive empire ended. Marrying his daughter to a duke of House Nordion, the sword was passed down to Nordion heirs in service of the King—commonly recognizable due to the curious birthmark signifying their bloodline.

And currently, such person was him.

Ares rolled the simple cotton blouse he had worn to sleep. It was there—on his right upper shoulder just like his father’s. Contemplating the birthmark once again, something tempted him to touch the sword, feeling the hilt in his hand once again after their brief contact the moment it was passed down to him.

He was not sure if he imagined it, but the very moment he concentrated on the blade, he could feel power emanating from it, lighting his veins from the inside. Perhaps he was excited, or perhaps this was the same kind of excitement his father felt because the sword corresponded to him—the power which surged underneath, fueling his spirit and confidence that whatever battle lying ahead, the wielder of Mystletainn would emerge victoriously because to wield the blade itself said person had to be of a different level first and displayed distinguished capability and potential as a warrior.

Ares clutched the blade tightly in his hand. The very night after passing down the blade to him, the Lionheart retreated to the armory, choosing a new, sharp, and powerful broadsword for him to carry. It still felt surreal, watching his father testing a couple of swords to pick a new warfare companion he liked best, for he had been so used to see Mystletainn hanging by the Lionheart’s belt for all his life.

“My father named me Ares and I hope I am worthy of you,” he muttered, looking down at Mystletainn once again. He contemplated the gems of contrasting colors decorating the hilt, remembering what the Lionheart taught him about—the sword was a powerful weapon, regardless; one of the three treasured relics besides the Tyrfing currently in the disposal of House Chalphy, mastered by Duke Vylon and one of his father’s best friends Marquis Sigurd. There was also the Balmung, apparently, wielded by Prince Shannan of Isaach whose fame with the sword he heard often but never met in person.

“This sword thirsts for blood,” the Lionheart once told him. “You see the red gem over there…” he seated the little cub on his lap, mustering a small smirk to set aside the bedtime story book the moment his mother was out of the room. True to the fable, at that time little Lord Ares was scared—the gem glistened under the lantern his father had held to illuminate the book, taking his breath away.

“Was this made of… blood drips, Lord Papa?” little Ares squeaked at that time. The Lionheart paused; guilt clouded his expression for not gauging the cub’s perceptiveness and the possibility of himself being taken aback just like that. Seeing how pensive his father was, the cub tried again, not satisfied because he did not get an immediate answer. “… Have you ever… killed?”

 _My wife is going to be so happy about this,_ the Lionheart grinned wryly. Duchess Grahnye had wanted to shield his heir for a little bit more, but he reasoned that lions did not grow up coddled and protected—they would learn to hunt and pounce. And had Ares been a daughter instead of a son, he still would want to give the best of everything he could, befitting a Nordion firstborn.

He decided not to answer, anyway. Ares would grow up one day, and he would find out on his own later. “The gem is a gem,” he finally let out an answer, leaving it like that waiting for the cub’s response next.

“Oh,” his cub patted the red gem again, resting his small paw over it. “The color is scary. I’m scared.”

“Don’t be, my son. I am here,” the Lionheart clasped little Ares’ hand resting on the red gem with his own protective hand. “Do you know why this blade has two gems of different colors?”

“No,” little Ares replied in the similar manner the way he did some moment prior. “Your hand is big.”

“You’ll grow up—yours will be,” the Lionheart ruffled his cub’s mane, noticing how much it mirrored his own when the lantern illuminated the cub’s blond strands.

“You are so tall, but Mama is not,” little Ares pouts a little bit. “I might end up like a mushroom.”

“That’s—“ the Lionheart snorted. “That’s not a really nice thing to say about your mother.”

“But she is! Don’t you agree, Papa, when Mama rolls her hair into that bread-bun again and…”

“A wonderful sight for me still, especially when she lets her hair loose,” the Lionheart cut in. “Let this be a secret between us both and I won’t tell your mother you compared her to a mushroom. Deal?”

“That will be 250 franc, Papa,” little Ares threw a leonine smirked then.

“Interesting, Lord Ares of Nordion. Likewise, how shall you procure 250 franc had I asked you back?”

“Mama gave money.”

“And where do you think Mama’s money came from?”

“… You gave Mama money which in turn she gave me?” little Ares bulged his eyes.

“You have a lot to learn, Your Little Lordship,” Duke Eldigan tried harder-than-hard not to laugh then. “Well, these lands generate revenue for Mama and me and I’m the head of this family, so…”

“Aunt Lachesis filled my pouch, Lord Papa,” the cub tried again. “Didn’t Prince Quan and Marquis Sigurd ever give you money? You said they were allies. Then I’m allying myself with Aunt Lachesis.”

Duke Eldigan gazed at his cub adoringly, waiting for what would unfold next.

“Mama once said something about you in armor—then about you each time you roll your sleeves up,” the cub chirped again. “So I can ask Mama for 250 franc if you asked me—this way, we are ev—ev…”

“Even?”

“Yes. That. Like Sir Alva’s brother, Papa.”

“His name is Eve, Ares.”

“Similar does not mean the same, Papa.”

“You have a point. And I pray that was good news Mama talked about?”

“Probably not, because she would always blush,” little Ares scratched his head. “Oh, I know then. You distressed Mama. I will not forgive you—therefore you have to give 500 franc, 250 for Mama.”

“Blushing, you said,” Duke Eldigan cleared his throat. “I dare to double the amount, Your Little Lordship.”

“You spoke in jest, Lord Papa.”

“No. See, I can offer 1000 franc for Mama and you, while you cannot even procure 250 of the negotiated sum—might as well retract that demand, Your Little Lordship, and your secret is safe with me.”

“Feh. Fine,” the cub pouted once again. “You are begrudgingly powerful, Lord Papa.”

“Thank you. I do not yield to an opponent,” Duke Eldigan contained his chuckles in his throat. Returning his attention to the blade, he sheathed it, casting it aside to a safe distance so the cub’s little paw would not be able to touch the sharp parts. “Ares, Mystletainn is a strong, strong blade which will not stop its hunt once it is out of its sheath—befitting for the lions who guarded Nordion for generations. Yet at the same time, with great power comes greater responsibility—and that is what the green gem there is for,” he ran his fingers in the cub’s mane, eyes glued on him to see if the heir showed any reaction at all.

“Great power begets greater responsibility,” the cub repeated.

“And where did you learn that word again?” Duke Eldigan cocked an eyebrow.

“One time I overheard you saying you thanked Mama for begetting me.”

“Eavesdropping on your parents, were you not? Dishonorable.”

“Then what does it mean—begetting, let alone begetting me?”

“… You used that word without knowing what it means?”

“You helped Mama with her dress despite not knowing what a bourrelet is.”

“It’s a hat, Ares.”

“No, Papa, it’s a bourrelet,” the cub insisted. “This means you need to give me 1500 franc.”

“That is a grand sum for a six-year old, Ares.”

“You raised 1000, Lord Papa. If I demanded 1000, I would not make any profit.”

“Creative wording. Who has been acquainted with you these past few days while I was away?”

“Aunt Lachesis.”

“No wonder,” the Lionheart sighed. “Alright, it is a bourrelet, my cub.”

“You just yielded, Papa,” the cub responded with a straight face.

“You are not my opponent, though—you are my child,” the Lionheart buried his nose in his cub’s mane.

“So your lands are mine too?”

“Someday they sure will be!”

“And your money, Lord Papa?”

“Isn’t it already, for I clothe and feed you?”

“And Mystletainn…”

The Lionheart’s expression shifted. There was a sharp gaze on his face while his lips curved, forming a tender smile. “That is my duty to prepare you wielding this, my cub. And I’ll teach you to properly swing a sword—so much that you will never forget that although Mystletainn’s red gem shines in a clear view, there is the green gem at the back of the hilt—think of it as your conscience, Ares, that part in your heart urging you to be responsible of your prowess and dedicating your strength to a just cause. Never, ever, spill the blood of the innocent. Never, ever, harm civilians or hurt ladies.”

“Perhaps every sword has to be like this, Papa,” little Ares glances at the Mystletainn. “With that green gem at the back of the hilt. Imagine, Agustria without bandits!”

“You have a noble heart already, my cub.”

“Do you roar, Lord Papa?”

“… Pardon, child?”

“Don’t they call you the Lionheart?” little Ares blurted innocently. “Did you meow as a child?”

“I am very much human, my son.”

“I will ask Mama.”

“You shall not.”

“You coughed, Lord Papa.”

“I am aware.”

“Your face is red.”

“I am also… aware.”

“Maybe you caught cold,” the cub chirped again. “Lord Papa, you are getting old. I suppose this is time for you to introduce me to Mystletainn.”

Duke Eldigan snorted so hard that he truly coughed this time. “Little by little I will.”

“And when?”

“When you are older.”

“I’m turning seven in a few months.”

“No, Ares, older than that.”

“I am older than Princess Altena of Leonster, Lord Papa.”

“Of course I remember when you were born, my cub.”

“So when?”

Lord Ares of Nordion, twenty-one and a-day old, contemplated the family heirloom again. It truly was his now—and my, testing how the blade felt in his grip felt like a second skin already, as if the blade was clearly crafted with him growing up in mind. Did Duke Eldigan feel the same when he received the blade for the first time from Grandpapa?

The green gem was still there, attached at the back of the hilt. Feeling it with his hand the way he did that night when his father seated him on his lap, he closed his eyes for a second. Surge of emotion rose from deep inside his chest—he had cried on his father’s shoulder yesterday, perhaps the very first instance he ever as a grown man. The Duchess widened her eyes when they returned from the courtyard although it was clear that the Lionheart suffered a few cuts across the face and smiled at her with chapped lips. At that time, he understood—his mother dreaded the day when he seriously crossed paths with his father, settling it not with words but fists. However the very moment her eyes landed on Mystletainn—then firmly settled in his grip instead of the Lionheart’s—her expression softened, understanding well what just happened that she made him bend his back a little bit so she could ruffle his mane and hold him tight in a proud motherly embrace.

“… Are you crying, Mother?” he whispered.

“I shouldn’t,” she responded with croaked voice. “This day will come, Ares. Let’s treat your father.”

“You go first,” the Lionheart gently urged him. “Let me walk with your mother a little bit.”

He obeyed, gesturing to the servants to tend to his father, whom by then had taken the duchess into the crook of his arm as they walked inside slowly.

“Back then he said I was getting old,” the Lionheart chuckled huskily. “Now I truly feel old.”

“You are not even fifty yet,” the duchess responded softly. “And even then, you will still be handsome.”

“I am glad then,” the duke smiled.

“What will you do now, Eldie?” the duchess inquired with a tender tone.

“… It does feel rather strange to carry myself without the same blade I’ve had for two decades, Grahnye,” the Lionheart replied. “But there is first time for everything, I suppose.”

“I won’t disturb you if you are heading to the armory…”

“That I will, but for now, I want to watch the sunset with you.”

“… Eldie.”

“He is still my cub.”

“I know.”

“And I had to do this, dear.”

“I know. I know, darling.”

“When did he grow to be so tall like that?”

“Well, he has your hair and prowess…”

“But he has your softness. Those eyes—“

“… Ares is still here, Eldie.”

“Not anymore, Mother,” he grinned at his parents. Returning his attention to the servants who noticed he had taken possession of the Mystletainn, he repeated the order demanding them to treat and pamper his father. It did not take long for servants to quickly catch up with their master while Lord Ares had retreated himself to his room, away from his parents, from the cousins who were more than delighted hearing he had inherited Mystletainn as a birthday present, away from the formidable Aunt Lachesis and her husband Sir Finn who just got promoted into a knight commander in service of Leonster. The moment he closed the door of his room he settled the black sword on his bed, and…

A lion cried twice that day.

Actually, nearly thrice with this one in the morning, had the knock on his door did not happen. Yet it did, anyway, so he swallowed back the overwhelming emotion by making a test-swing with the blade he just inherited, unsheathing it in a heartbeat as his first exercise in the morning. It was as if the blade responded to his touch, releasing a powerful strike akin to a deluge which overwhelmed everything it consumed. He could already picture how his opponent would not even realize what hit them until it was too late, and the thought of overwhelming an opponent like that brought his mind at ease. The sword was his father’s trust and care materialized, and after witnessing what the sword was capable to do—including what _he_ was capable to do at the courtyard yesterday, he twisted Mystletainn so that its tip was pointed at the floor while he knelt before it, his hands clasping over the hilt.

He prostrated.

_O, the Almighty—_

“Good morning, Lord Ares. Are you up, my lord?”

_—May I do the sword justice and likewise;_

“Lord Ares?”

_… Like it did my father and forefather Sir Hezul the Great._

“Come in,” he answered, sheathing Mystletainn back and carefully placed it on his bed. Male servants came inside carrying a large wooden container bearing pleasant warm water, followed by another vessel of soap and other necessary amenities including a soft towel. A chambermaid curtsied to him, opening his curtains and quickly moved to make his bed while another male servant looked into his closet to draw the clothes he would need after the bath.

“Ares?”

Servants stopped moving, dropping into bows and curtsies to welcome the approaching figure. The duchess gracefully lifted her hand, raising the servants back to their feet.

“My lady mother,” the Nordion heir bowed at the duchess. “Leave us.”

Servants nodded, bowed and curtsied again before retreating.

“How may I be of service in the morning, Mother?” the young lion came closer to kiss the duchess’ hand.

“Let me be in service of you today, dearest,” the duchess casually gestured at the steamy bath the servants had prepared for the throne heir. “Let me bathe you like I would when you were a cub?”

“… Mother,” Ares ran his thumb over his nose, his face being red as his demeanor shifted. “Must you?”

“You have grown so much,” Duchess Grahnye of Nordion stood on her tiptoes, cupping the son’s cheek with a gentle touch. “We are feasting you today, and I haven’t even given you anything yet, my dear.”

“You gave birth to me, Mother. You gave me life.”

“Flatterer. And I thought your father did not pass eloquence to you.”

“He is still my father, Mother,” Ares grinned a little, letting the duchess unlacing the criss-cross threads which buttoned his blouse together. He let out a satisfied sigh as he stepped into the bath, with the duchess sitting on the stool behind him as she gently wiped his back.

“Well, after this I won’t be doing this to you anymore…”

“I will still be your loyal son, Mother, no matter how old I become.”

“There will be plans, Ares—befitting your position and age now that this day has come,” the duchess pondered a little bit. “How does Mystletainn feel in your grip?”

“… Comfortable,” the heir to the Nordion throne closed his eyes again, feeling so relaxed and cared for under the tender touches of the duchess. “I hope it is a good sign.”

“It is. That was what your father said when Grandpapa passed it to him on his deathbed.”

“And Father—has he recovered?” Ares queried again, recalling how brutal the test was just yesterday. Sure he limped and coughed because the Lionheart’s punches were akin to a bludgeoning hammer, but he also hit hard, and he was merely bruised at the torso while the Lionheart shed blood.

“Do not worry about him. You know how tough he is,” the duchess took a comb, sighing as she began to run it over her cub’s golden mane. “Look at you. Perhaps we should put the cross knights ready to fence this place—the ladies would so love to get to know you.”

“… You are jesting, Mother.”

“Why are you embarrassed?” the duchess giggled a little bit. “It is probably the right time to consider as well, Ares. Or do you have someone in mind?”

“… There is no such person…” he wanted to protest, but the duchess kept combing his hair, suddenly filling his head with names he could not even care for at the moment—including the possibility of meeting them at his own party. His expression only shifted when the duchess informed him that the cross knights had been training for free-form equestrian show, where audience could expect them showcasing their skill handling horses under various positions. Duke Eldigan had been wanting to call for a court jester, but he refused, feeling sourer than ever comparing himself getting a children party.

The duchess patiently waited until he had done drying himself after the bath. Deep down inside she was proud of him no less—the son was more of a practical person, disliking pomp. His manner towards his elders was not lacking despite his clear preference of disliking formalities and unyielding free spirit compared to his esteemed father, but above all, he was alert and ever-ready. The Lionheart raised him with love and compassion, but her husband was still a knight first and a lord second—he would take Ares to arenas, to training grounds, to ranches, even to camping grounds and marches with the soldiers. He would throw Ares into the wilderness, testing his endurance and survival skill, letting the cub to hunt and cook his own food like a mere infantryman in peril. He would assign Ares into his knightly unit from the bottom, letting him do what new recruits did, glaring at commanders who wanted to help his cub even if merely by setting his own tent and bedding. He would punish Ares the way he did an undisciplined soldier—whether making the cub run a kilometer worth of horse ride, making him to procure water by carrying water vessels with his bare hands instead of loading them into a cart, attacking him when he was asleep to test his alertness, subjecting him to the same meals consumed by soldiers, making him swim when the air was cold, training him so he could sleep and wake up at any given time as demanded.

Back then she had protested. There were series of cold nights and sharp lines she would give to the Lionheart, but her husband did not yield. One night she found him bandaging Ares, then eighteen and wounded after swimming a fast current, kissing his forehead… five, probably ten times in the forehead while the son lay asleep—she knew she would give in. She knew ordinary was not enough to continue their forefather’s legacy, and being more than just ordinary would do the son service more than the father himself later in the future.

Her only complaint was that her guilt for not being able to give the Lionheart another child—another son. She confessed it to him, thinking Ares would be able to relax a little had she…

But the next she knew was that the Lionheart, tenderly—tender than dessert cream—took her into his arm at their bed, telling her that he was aware of their cub’s potential more than anyone else; yet at the same time he valued her that he decided to loosen the training a little bit to ask the son if it was brutal.

She did not know whether to celebrate or sigh—Ares was _fierce_ ; capital-F-fierce like a pouncing lion. The cub had soured and sulked worse than his outbursts she had witnessed so far, demanding more training instead. To her pride, however, Ares’ ferocity was never in vain. Her son did not enjoy fighting for the sake of fighting itself, but his eyes lighted and _burned_ as he ferociously knocked down a man he caught to be whipping his horse. When the paladin Alva informed her that Lord Ares wreaked havoc at the market, she braced herself for the worst as Duke Eldigan frowned like his head was being slammed against a wall. When they inspected the market, the duchess could only gape when witnessing shoppers attested that Lord Ares, cornered ten against one because the wretched rider called for a backup, was angrier than angry knowing people would rather defend animal abuse than mend the damage their friend caused.

“Oh, goodness!” the duchess clasped her hands in front of her then. “And all these things?”

“T-that’s…” the shoppers hesitantly spoke again, “L-Lord Ares was unharmed, Your Grace. If anything, it was him putting his attackers to sleep. Lord Ares did not touch the goods.”

As the mother, she was proud. But exactly because she was the mother that she gave him an earful about fighting at the street—and a handful of earlobe-pinching because her husband _smirked_.

“Be a father,” she glared at him.

“But I am. I made that, I have no complaint. You should be proud too.”

“… Eldigan Hezul, Duke of Nordion, Prince of Agustria—“

The Lionheart gulped and the cub got another earful—with a wider smirk, however. Hearing the father-son conversation which did not proceed the way she wanted from the corner of their living room, she sighed and sighed hearing what Ares confessed to the Lionheart—yes, he knocked out that rider _cold_ with a single punch; yes, that man whipped his old horse; more importantly, yes, that man called for backup from bar-brawlers but it was not ten against one—it was _twelve_ against one.

With a heavy motherly heart, she knew she just had to pinch Duke Eldigan’s ear—again.

“Is something troubling you, Mother?” done rinsing himself dry Ares walked up to the bed. His eyes widened upon seeing the clothing his mother had chosen for him—it was in his least-worn list exactly because they were fine and grand; pieces consisting of lively colors and vivid motifs instead of his typical preference for the darker if not earthen colors and simpler designs. The clothing the duchess had picked up mirrored his father’s taste and image more than his person.

“Never mind. Come here?” the duchess gestured at him.

“… Mother, that is _red_ ,” he responded sullenly, gesturing at the magnificent robe the duchess had lain on the bed. He frowned deeper when the duchess put a puffed-sleeve shirt over his white undershirt, patting his shoulders as she neatly tied the ribbons to keep the sleeves shaped.

“This accentuates your muscles,” the duchess smiled. “Will you bend down then?”

“But why?” he did so, with a frown. “There is nothing wrong with my typical black overdress and cravat.”

“Shush, my cub. Finesse will not kill anyone,” the duchess giggled, enrobing him and putting a feathered hat on top of his head. “Oh, Ares, dearest! Look at you—a heartbreaker!”

He watched his own reflection in front of the mirror they had put in his spacious comfortable room. For a moment he was tempted to harness Mystletainn to do his bidding because… because he nearly did not recognize himself there. The person in the mirror had his golden mane, his eyes—which he did inherit from his mother—and his built. But the person in the mirror was also clad in dandy vermilion fur coat over a gold puffed shirt with black accents and crimson ribbons on the sleeves. There was an embroidered crimson-colored feathery hat resting on top of his head its color scheme corresponded to his dark brown breeches and gold-colored shoes. He could only stand agape while his mother took Mystletainn, fastening the black sword to his belt, looking so pleased at her own choice which left him little room to protest.

At least now that Mystletainn was back with him, there was a little bit sense of normalcy which only then prompted him to respond. His first reaction was to open his mouth. But even after his lips curled like a ball, he could not find anything—anything at all to rebut his beaming mother.

“I can braid your hair as well, Ares,” the duchess suggested.

“By the Almighty—I beseech you not to, Mother,” he grimaced. “And heartbreaker? Mother, I have no desire to brawl with ladies, more so to strike them at such vital point.”

“Ares, you—dear Lord,” the duchess sighed. “Just another thing you inherited from your father, I guess.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” the duchess sighed louder this time. “Well, let us have a breakfast before the feast?”

“Hmmm.”

“Would you smile a little bit—“

“In these clothes? Less likely, dear Mother.”

“Alright. Smile a little bit, or the braid comes true.”

He sighed, practicing his expressions several times before the mirror, imagining that time when he took down twelve people on a fight. Perhaps that should be enough to smile—no, grin—

“For the love of everything holy, my son, please, no _sadistic_ smile.”

He let out another sour growl, frowning and sighing as he took his mother’s hand with him. The duchess hid a small grin, either way—she knew, but no way she would let him slip this time because at least the common folk should know that their young lord actually knew other colors than black. In fairness, she pretended she did not see him shooting death glare at her nephew, Lord Diarmuid, oldest child of Lady Lachesis of Nordion, who bowed so solemnly like facing the King but with such mischievous stare that she knew had she left these two by themselves, either Diarmuid’s bickering would paralyze her son if the latter fist did not silence the merry cousin firsthand.

“Good morning, my lady Aunt!” Diarmuid chirped. “And such a fine day we have, Lord Cousin!”

“Your Grace, here are the flowers for later…” a maid approached, giving the perfect opportunity for the lion cub to hiss back.

“Die, Diarmuid.”

“Not yet a sovereign yet commuting a family member into a death sentence. Benevolent, Ares.”

“Ah, you are right. Anyway, die.”

“Ares?”

He grimaced again, simply stretching his lips at his mother who caught their bantering. The duchess shook her head, shooting her cub a sour look while Diarmuid willfully tailed them from behind, keeping his gleeful smirk intact as the duchess started to talk a thing or two about the list of princesses and noblewomen he should expect to be invited to Nordion court.

Mystletainn dangled by his waist, and if he did not know better, he could have sworn the sword he just inherited laughed at him.

 _Perhaps,_ he thought, suddenly feeling his stomach knotted when Diarmuid opened the door for his mother as they arrived at the dining room where the sovereign’s family took their meals. Perhaps he could endure this until the guests dispersed and dragged that clown cousin of his to the training ground. Perhaps if he could subdue Diarmuid in a fencing sparring or land an uppercut on his nose—

“Happy smile, Ares, not a sadistic one!” the duchess sighed—again.

He yielded when his mother pinched his earlobe.


	3. Crossroads

It was merely two-three hours after sunrise that she busied herself.

She made a quick braid on her hair, wasting no time securing the middle braid with her pink favorite ribbon. Combing the rest of her hair with her fingers, she powdered her face a little bit, pressing her lips against the vermilion she had set on a handkerchief. Dipping her fingers into the pile of powder, she carefully mixed the vermilion with her powder before dabbing it over her cheeks, giving a nice, fresh-looking blush on her cheekbones.

She stopped for a while to appraise her work in the mirror. Her lips were now layered with a nice tone of red—not too strong and not too mild as she liked it, the way her powder and blush enhanced her beauty, giving the impression of a healthy, youthful pink rose in the spring and summer.

That took her mind a little bit from the fact that the chemise she wore as undergarment was torn a little bit, and she determined to make most of today so that she could buy a new chemise. The one she was wearing had undergone fixes and stitching that she feared had she subjected it under the needle again, the old threads would not be able to hold everything together and would tear apart.

She sighed, contemplating the modest room she lived in. She had tried to make the two-room place she got to call a house pleasant—either by wild flowers she procured every now and then, either by using vibrant colors to decorate the place, or simply sewing colorful pillowcase as an excess of the fabrics she gathered after finishing a customer’s demand.

Her surroundings had been rather busy in the past two months ever since the Worker’s Alley had a bulk order from the castle. Florists and gardener had been delivering fresh flowers to Castle Nordion and worked on the common square located just near the castle town while tailors and seamstresses were asked to deliver tablecloths and napkins. When her neighboring old tailor had to rest because of rheumatism, part of her felt bad for feeling lucky that she got to help finishing the fabrics and collecting the payment supposedly meant for him. The duchess had asked cooks to make a large amount of soup in big cauldrons for the common folk she intended to entertain after everything with her own peerage was done as a part to honor the birthday lord.

She had heard of this man a couple of times prior to this. Lord Ares of Nordion—her neighbors said—was a young man no older than twenty at that time; tall and well-built like his father. Expert swordsman, decent pugilist, acceptable lancer and adept equestrian who mostly spent his days out at the field with knights and soldiers, Lord Ares traveled from garrison to garrison, keep after keep to accompany the Lionheart on his marches. A frank man, they said, which set him apart from the courteous Lionheart but no less gallant than he was, if only one would be so willing to go past his ferocious stare and brooding demeanor. And apparently, this Lord Ares did not really fancy the finesse of the court that it was already hard to get him attending banquets and parties, so his appearance on the extraordinary day was something much expected from the nobles and commoners alike.

At that time, she could only scoff. Gallantry? She had heard of Duke Eldigan’s peerless chivalry. But Duke Eldigan was still a prominent, high-ranking crowned head who had no idea what it was like living like those who shared residence at the Worker’s Alley like her. Named as such the alley was full of peasants who worked domestic or even odd jobs, located around the outskirts of Agustria, just at the corner of Agustrian-Grannvalian border. Duke Eldigan mostly went south to fortify the borders and the southern coasts where Verdane shared half of the sovereignty, and after witnessing rich merchants and even nobles who thought they could buy anything their eyes landed on without any regard towards people like human that they were, she decided gallantry was just a trapping word like a prelude to destruction.

She knew gallantry. It came in the form of men who attended her shows, offering to buy her dinner hoping to snag her into their bed. Sometimes it was the merchants who hired her service as an entertainer, serving her dinner with a lot of meat and anything commoner like her could not easily afford in daily basis before implying what they could give more had she just willed to meet up in their private chamber. Sometimes it was in the form of men in the market who demanded her smile just because they gave some extra cut for the rye bread and potatoes she bought. Sometimes it was men who demanded her neighboring old tailor fixing their sleeves and not-so-subtly inquired about her when they caught a glimpse of her presence helping in his shop.

There were times in the past when she did not know any better, as those mistresses returned to the Worker’s Alley bejeweled and enrobed in silks. But her neighboring old tailor had insisted for her to never pursue the path, because he thought a distinguished flower like her was too good, too precious for the coldness of rich manor’s walls and thin beddings, however.

At that time she did not understand. But little by little, she began to, especially when some of those mistresses returned like a completely different person after losing their favors at those privileged places. Some were shunned and some did not return—and she figured even if life was hard, she was free.

Either the old tailor just had it enough with the nobles and rich folks or wanted to discourage her from entertaining because he thought it was neither appropriate nor decent, she was not keen on performing a volta—a dance with rather intimate hold between a man and a woman—considering the kind of people she ran into at times. Volta required the woman being lifted into the air as the couple turned, and definitely the last thing she needed would be a man scaling her curves disguising it as a social event.

She fixed her dress. It was a bodice with a layer of full skirt in pink she wore over a white muslin underdress. The bodice was laced with brass grommet, which, despite the initial purpose of fitting, resulted in accentuating her figure and shape well. Praying that her muslin underdress could contain the old chemise although doubling like that made her feel a little bit hot inside, she headed to the old tailor’s shop with the napkins ordered by Nordion royals neatly packed in her basket as her other hand carried a bowl.

“Uncle Tailor?” she peeked inside, softly knocking on the door. “I brought you soup.”

“Ah, goodness,” the old tailor grunted a little. “My shoulders are still achy but numb. Old age…”

“I finished the castle’s orders,” she set her wooden basket near him, placing the bowl on the table. “Rest assured, I’ll deliver them for you. I’ll see if there are herbs I can procure to help you with your joints.”

“I’m sorry for making you doing that,” the old tailor spoke again. “Can you ride a horse?”

“Unfortunately!” she shook her head. “But if the rest of the people hired by the duchess here were hiring a cart or something, I’d hop on. Easy. And the wages…”

“You can just keep the amount of work you did there,” the old tailor cut in. “I trust you.”

“We’ll split as usual, Uncle,” she smiled comfortingly. “If only this Lord Ares would have birthday every month, that might help filling our kitchens… don’t you think?”

The old tailor smiled as he could not help but to be amused by the young entertainer. “You are such an endearing wildflower, Lene,” he chuckled. “But his parents may not like it because it will make him age like a dog. He is twenty-one now, I can imagine the Duke would love to introduce him to ladies.”

“Noble ladies,” the dancer Lene countered sharply. “But really, based on what I heard so far from the people here is that this Lord Ares sounds sensational or something. Why would he be chaperoned?”

“There is a problem, apparently,” the old tailor pondered a little bit. “He is not interested in marriage.”

“How nice.”

“You sound cynical, my child.”

“Compared to you who not-so-shyly suggested me to tie the knot?” she rolled her eyes. “Interesting! A prominent nobleman like him dreads having to share with another person while I, to be safe, must tether myself to someone else and wear his name!”

“Do not begrudge Lord Ares—well, Marquis Ares he is now.”

“Who cares? And well, nothing personal, but he is still a lordship.”

“A warrior too,” the old tailor muttered. “A _fine_ warrior they said.”

“It has nothing to do with me,” she scoffed again. “Actually, Uncle, I begrudge you. I am incomparable to Marquis Ares—he evades his parties like a plague because… he has no wish to be tied down to a dame?”

“You, your temper, your courage, and your tongue,” the old tailor sighed.

“Fine quartet!”

“And it is not that unreasonable. He is aware of the long history pertaining his family and peerage,” the old tailor staggered as he added a couple more of folded fabrics into her basket. "Here. Off now, you. Actually, yes, you should go. There is nothing bad in attending the feast, Lene—you are still young, anyway, I’d rather you not just rot here with us.”

“Must be so hard being a man. I cannot imagine!” her lips made a form displeased line as she arranged the newly-folded fabrics into the basket to fit. “And I am eighteen. Considering I need no chaperone and have been surviving life on my own, dare I say this oh-so-dashing Lord Ares is not that smart.”

“God. Well, well, just hope that you don’t let that one slip when you are delivering my goods!” the old tailor truly cackled now. “There you go, my blossoming lass. Who knows, perhaps you can find someone there even if Lord Ares cannot!”

“Didn’t know rheumatism could impact the tongue,” she parried, half-grumbling and setting her own packed sandwiches on top of the folded fabrics pile. Traveling to Nordion castle would require around three-four hours by common carriage from where she lived—faster perhaps, with war horses. She did not want to bet on all her chances that the castle would feed workers like her. After all, it was nice to be well-prepared—just one of the little things which made her feel independent despite the hard life of being a peasant, and definitely nowhere close to whatever whim it was Lord Ares had in mind.

 _At least Lord Ares can cry and wail in a warm comfortable room, of which I’m sure not lacking amenities,_ she thought again, pursing her lips even tighter. Why didn’t Nordion just send someone to collect what they ordered instead of having people to come there? She would doubt that a grand dukedom like that did not have enough manpower just to commit simple delivery like this.

“There will be food. You know what I mean,” the old tailor responded. “Go. You are growing—you should not starve. It’s the old bones’ job. Here, take everything with you to deliver to Nordion.”

“… I’ll pack some for you on the way back then,” she spoke softly again. “You shielded me from the harshness of real world, Uncle. And I’m not coming there to beg—I can sell my skill. If Lord Ares and his courtiers do not care, perhaps the common folk could appreciate me.”

“There you go again, my child, begrudging a nobleman you haven’t even known yet.”

“What is the point, Uncle? He is still a nobleman, and that alone already screams similarity to me,” she pouted. “Why didn’t they send envoys here instead? Duke Eldigan is a well-known cavalry commander, sure he can spare a few of those durable and fast war horses he keeps in his stable for this one.”

“Perhaps they did not want the birthday lord to know,” the old tailor pondered. “I know not, lass.”

“I can’t imagine a person to dread his own birthday like that,” she spat. “Goodness, had it been me! Perhaps all this Lord Ares needs is a good smack across the face.”

“You shall not do such a thing,” the old tailor looked at her, mortified.

“Not for now. I mean, I’m coming there to deliver, anyway,” she sighed. “I tell you what, Uncle—perhaps the duke can compensate the traveling fee. That way he will know that not all Agustrians are as well-off!”

“You will what now?”

“Yes~? Since no lord cares for this godforsaken place, perhaps he will!” she responded. “Rest assured, Uncle, I have no wish being thrown into their dungeon. Otherwise, how will I give you the wage?”

“One can hope,” the old tailor muttered again like he was praying. His dancer neighbor was sure fiery in her own way, but sometimes some days he wished she would temper that fire a little for the sake of her own good. She was not new in the world of entertainment, and considering the number of rich people she had turned down so far, he simply wished to keep her out of harm’s way.

He remembered the night he had found the girl—shivering and cold with injured feet and shoes which appeared to be close to withering had she walked another mile. So distraught she was that she barely said anything, but by the time colors returned to her face due to the virtue of simple cream soup, shivering yet alert she chose to draw a blade she concealed in her dress.

“Where am I?” at that time she squeaked coarsely. “Am I still in Grannvale?”

The people who had come to check were equally appalled like him. They tried asking where part of Grannvale she meant, but she kept her mouth shut in a rather deferring manner as if she was aware that she was not even supposed to ask in the first place. When he brought her some water, however, her crassness fell that she slaked her thirst in a heartbeat, grabbing the goblet in a manner of an ant seeing a sugar cube. Whatever happened, they decided not to ask. The journey might have been more than perilous judging from her torn robe and mutilated feet, with thirst so dire that no doubt she had been deprived of essentials as well. The peasants’ kind gesture and being told that she was in southern Agustria, close to Agustrian-Grannvalian border apparently brought down her guard a little because the next thing they witnessed, the girl let out a long sigh before succumbing to exhaustion that she slept sounder than an infant. Hours later she had said that she could make a living by starting fresh there in the northern Nordion outskirts, sounding relieved and enthusiastic because Agustria was known as a vast country where arts had a chance to thrive.

Like prior, they could not really object and the girl quickly showed them that she was not to be taken lightly. The moment after her feet healed she quickly sailed invitation to invitation, paying back the old tailor who had taken her in. When the carpenter next to the old tailor’s house was moving to Verdane to start a new life since the cost of an Agustrian living started piling up, the girl moved in, becoming one of the peasantries who resided at the Worker’s Alley.

She still did not lose the fire. If anything, she would rather entertain common folk than venturing crowned heads’ palaces and titles for some reason. Regardless of what it was, the people welcomed her with open hands—she did not differentiate clients whether she entertained a distinguished client or a farmer. If they did not have something specific they hoped for her to perform, she would have no qualm delivering high-art dances even if the client was a band of farmers who just had a bountiful harvest, and audience would watch her with sparkling eyes as much as she would treat them to a similar gaze. Some people hailed her because it was uncommon to see a court dance in a humble setting, and the girl definitely had guts for serving the common folk the kind of entertainment one typically found in a castle.

“You don’t need to send me off, Uncle,” the familiar cheerful voice stopped him from reminiscing. “And trust me, your joints need your love more than any titled head like, ever!”

He grimaced in pain. Their Lene might be just that fiery, but often times she was also just that right.

* * *

 

“Can I change?”

Everyone tilted their heads at him, giving him instant red face once again. People had been maintaining such a look since he took his mother’s arm that early morning, of which felt even more surreal compared to seeing his father eating breakfast with a cold rag pressed at the corner of his lips to reduce the swelling he inflicted with his fist—or the new schiavona sword resting at the Lionheart’s waist.

“Good morning, Ares,” he had serenely greeted him from the other end of the table, from the seat which head was decorated with a gold-polished engraving of a lion—the distinguished symbol of House Nordion which could be found in their flags as well. “How is Mystletainn treating you so far?”

Lord Ares glanced around, noticing his mother had left them to inspect a basket of dessert fruits from the cart their maids were bringing in. Toning down his voice, he arched his back a little bit to get close to the Lionheart, murmuring. “Splendidly.”

The Lionheart grinned, masking his chuckles with a small cough which he quickly swallowed back with wine. “This morning is a little bit cold.”

His cub smirked back. “How is the new sword… Lord Papa?”

The Lionheart was a bit taken aback by the way his cub had addressed him, but it was by no means in a bad way because his expression softened, akin to finding something he thought had lost. Glancing around in the similar manner like his cub just did, his eyes glinted with mischief upon finding the duchess was still busy with the fruits—now even more so since the maids brought in a bowl of honey. “Well,” he returned his gaze at his son, whispering. “… Murderously sharp.”

Ares snorted so hard that he made a priestly expression when the duchess returned to the table.

The breakfast went on peacefully and Lord Ares of Nordion received his first gifts that morning. The Lionheart had called for an assembly in the throne room where the celebration started with a solemn, courtly procession. Needless to say he understood the disgruntled expression on his heir’s face—Ares appeared rather restless, like he was ready to jump out of the tower had they detained him longer. But at the same time he also wanted to temper this son of his a little bit more, feeling rather guilty that he had been mostly educating the cub in the art of combat and warfare that his adventurous side eclipsed the knightly side of his—which, to the honest thought of the Lionheart—was concerning.

The throne room had a different feeling that day.

Sunlight peeked from the corner of the tower windows servants had opened, giving a pleasant sensation of a gentle breeze. He was surprised to find nearly all his father’s main courtiers there, and even distinguished officers and commanders he used to march and train with were there, looking neat in freshly-polished breastplate when they made a military knightly salute the moment he walked in.

He waited while his father, with his mother in arm, took the dukedom throne. A shaft of sunlight fell onto the gold-polished lion-shaped craving which decorated his father’s throne the way the head chair at the dining room did, and he could see the flag of Agustria being erected at the corner, not far from his mother’s smaller consort throne with smaller lion engraving while the banner of Nordion was gracefully spread behind the sovereign’s throne.

As awkward as he was with formalities, this was the life he grew up with, and the very least he could try would be being impeccable for his parents. The moment the duke and the duchess were seated, he approached—just one step closer, waiting on his father to say anything.

There was a tender smile on the Lionheart’s lips as he cast his robe aside. “Come here, my son.”

He nodded.

Courtiers and officers bowed and curtsied, forming a human fence line at both sides as he walked closer. Those he had passed raised slowly the moment he was no longer before them, and they all took a few step back by the time he arrived at the foot of the sovereign’s throne.

“Lord Father,” he murmured, his voice trembled a little with emotion. Taking off the headdress his mother had fixed on him, he bowed, dropping to his knees to kneel before the peerless Lionheart.

Duke Eldigan drew his sword, signaling him to keep Mystletainn anyway. By then the chamberlain had waited on standby behind his cub, holding a robe and a smaller crown while page boys disrobed the heir. So solemn and quiet everything was that Lord Ares did not lift his face off the ground when the tip of the duke’s sword touched his shoulder. “My son Ares,” the duke spoke; his voice was firm with a touch of softness underneath. “From this day forward, you shall be known as Marquis Ares of Nordion, the heir presumptive to the throne which you shall reign after my passing.”

“No, Papa—“ Ares blurted out of reflex. Clearing his throat, only then he lifted his eyes off the ground, meeting the Lionheart’s fatherly-yet-regal look at him. He spoke again—his own voice being deep without any trace of doubt like prior. “I have meant to say that I cannot imagine such a day, Lord Father,” he repeated in the manner of a lion rather than a cub. “But there is no greater honor than following your footprints and assuming the responsibility in your stead,” he nodded. “I accept.”

The duchess wiped her eyes. Sounds of trumpets could be heard echoing the corridors as a footman stepped out of the castle with a parchment, announcing that the duke, in a closed ceremony, had truly named Lord Ares as heir presumptive and he therefore would be known as the marquis from now on. The pages who previously disrobed the young lord now enrobed him with the heir’s robe to signify his ascension to the new position, and the chamberlain rested the crown over his head.

Ares closed his eyes, listening to the chamberlain’s clear voice retelling the brave exploits of their forefather, Sir Hezul the Great. He had listened to the stories more than he could remember, and he knew he could recite the founding of Agustria without a text because the Lionheart had told him many, many times. But that day everything felt different, the way twenty-one sounded different to him—not old, but not young; not yet a sovereign but a formal heir.

Duke Eldigan withdrew the sword from his cub’s shoulder. “Raise,” he spoke gently. “… My cub.”

“Papa,” Ares whispered, bowing again, and then to his mother whose hand he also kissed. Courtiers approached him, formally kneeling and curtsying as a form of acknowledgment and plead of loyalty.

“I am yours to command, Your Lordship,” officers and commanders who marched and trained with him spoke as they clasped their swords downwards and knelt to him. Each high command of every knightly regiment operating under Nordion met him in the throne room, kneeling and saying something similar; and he thought he could hear Duke Eldigan talking about formally shaping the Marquis’ personal guard as a new regiment which would be fully his to command.

“Marquis,” he tilted his head again upon hearing a feminine yet firm tone addressing him.

“My lady Aunt,” Ares quickly took Lady Lachesis to rise. “Please—please don’t, Aunt Lachesis.”

“You are the heir presumptive,” Lady Lachesis insisted, curtsying even deeper. “Congratulations.”

“By the grace of your companionship, my lady Aunt,” he smiled. “Now I can give your 250 franc back.”

“I’d extort it from you for sure,” Lady Lachesis smiled back, eyes glinting with mischief understanding well what his nephew had meant. It was still fresh in her mind even today—when Duke Eldigan forced a sour tone inquiring her about the secret pact she made with the cub. And she recalled standing her ground, firmly telling both the duke and the duchess not to make him sound stupid by treating him like a baby even though Lord Ares at that time was still a child.

“I would love to pamper you back, Aunt Lachesis,” Ares smiled even kinder. Lachesis stepped aside, giving room for her own children to pay homage to the newly-appointed marquis.

“Lord Cousin,” her softspoken daughter, Lady Nanna, curtsied before him. “I shall remain with you in alliance and friendship as much as I shall in a familial bond. We may not always see each other, but by all means, do not hesitate to seek for my assistance.”

“Hi as well, baby princess,” Ares chuckled, ruffling her hair in a brotherly manner. “And likewise.”

“I have confidence in you,” Diarmuid took place after his sister. “Oh, pardon—Marquis Ares, my lord.”

“Call me like that again and I pluck your tongue out, _Sir_ Diarmuid,” Ares smiled, hugging his cousin, who smirked before purposefully making his retreat in an utmost courteous manner—before getting white-pale when the duchess and Lady Lachesis glared at them both.

The ceremony was concluded then. Together they walked to the balcony, meeting well-wishers and enthusiastic crowd cheering from under. Some ladies threw roses and even scarves at him—some he caught, and the duchess could not resist a good chuckle when Ares, face deeper than blood-red, merely distributed the tokens of affection he received for the ladies who were with him.

“Well, I’ve been being a good cub for the entire morning, haven’t I, Mother?” he flashed a feral smirk after waving his hand for the tenth time, receiving the warm applause.

“Well, well. Is there something you want, dearest?” the duchess gave in.

“Yes, Mother,” the birthday marquis smirked even wider. “Permission to disappear!”

The duchess frowned sullenly when her prided son leaped from the balcony, storming out of the throne room even before she could do anything to prevent it from happening. Duke Eldigan could not contain his laughter, however, which sincerely earned her elbow against his ribs.

“Perhaps if you let him wear black, he will obey,” the duke exclaimed.

“His idea of merriment is sparring your knights,” the duchess sighed. “But not today, Eldie!”

“Ah, let him be. It’s his birthday after all,” the duke gently latched his fingertips against the duchess’. “But if you are worried, let me take it away. Alva?”

“Your Grace,” Alva quickly approached from the corner, bowing.

“Follow Ares. Make sure there is no harm befalling him,” the duke smiled. “Put your lady’s mind at ease.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

“Go with Sir Alva, Diarmuid,” the duke gestured. “He hates chaperones but not your company for sure.”

“He might be giving me a black eye first, Lord Uncle,” Diarmuid grinned. “But of course I shall.”

“Exactly why I want Sir Alva to go with you,” the duke mustered a faint smile. “One lion in the wilderness is enough of a concern for your poor aunt. So be the balancing puma we need!”

The knight exited the throne room after Diarmuid.

“You pamper Ares,” the duchess spoke, but her eyes were tender.

“Is this the same concerned mother who used to say I trained him too hard?” the duke responded with a playful eyebrow-quirking.

“That exactly is how you pamper our son,” the duchess sighed again. “He likes that. He adores you.”

“And you,” the duke smiled at his concerned wife. “I started thinking there might be a blessing in him storming out like the impatient cub he is, Grahnye.”

“… What do you mean?”

“This,” the duke smiled—again—gentler, gentler this time as he tilted her chin to search her lips.

* * *

 

She looked around.

Her basket dangled at the crook of her arm. The crowd was overwhelming, and worse nobody so far had been helpful to her. She only had one question, one simple question—where in blazes should she put or arrange these ordered fabrics? Where and whom should she go to claim her payment?

She had ridden in a mass carriage people rented together heading to Nordion. The experience was unpleasant, and complete with her already unfavorable opinion of how the castle handled the Worker’s Alley, her good faith was nearly vanquished.

She had contemplated the old tailor’s words during the trip. Seeing how lively and well-decorated everything was the closer she got to the castle town, she thought the old tailor was right that she already condemned everything even before bearing witness to the event herself. It was not that she did not understand the importance of the event—after all, people who traveled with her did attest that the court should be naming Lord Ares as the true heir presumptive to Nordion throne, after all—and with the possibility of high-ranking guests and titled heads, tight security measure would only be expected.

They did not need to tell her that. She could see Nordion’s elite cross knights patrolling the roads, helped by Agustrian royal army and their armored troopers. They checked every incoming guests, let alone if said arrival brought in carts and goods from the outside. Carts were searched, papers were checked, and those who were found to be armed were taken aside for further questioning. Those who said that they carried a sword as personal protection were queried of their identities.

Spending all these times living at the Nordion outskirts she had understood that Nordion was a strong nation because of many things, and the cross knights were as elite as they said they were—highly-disciplined and trained they conducted security measures like the reliable, professional guards they were, under the tutelage and leadership of Duke Eldigan himself.

But today she had wanted nothing more but throwing guards at the capital into a nearby river. Perhaps when they were drowning with their heavy armors only then they understood how _annoying_ they behaved, she pondered, sourly recalling how they stopped her, questioning her sandwiches when she said she was heading to the castle.

“I’m from the Worker’s Alley at the outskirts from the north, and the castle ordered these napkins and handkerchiefs for the marquis’ folk party,” she had explained then, feeling her patience thinning each time her carriage ran into a guard. … The problem was they were everywhere, covering miles after miles that nothing escaped their supervision.

“Really? How are we sure you are not aiming to poison the royal family?”

“And risking myself locked and unpaid? What are you, stupid?” her temper finally flared after she had to explain for the thirteenth time to the fifth guard she encountered at the castle town today.

“You—insolent peasant!”

She glared back. Her anger slowly dissipated after realizing that the guard had called for a backup. Three armored, armed men cornering her all at once just steps away from the decorated makeshift gate castle workers erected for Marquis Ares’ folk party sure was not something she fancied, after all.

“I have no intent on poisoning His Lordship,” she murmured then. Tired and distressed she just wanted to go home after collecting the wage. “I packed these for my meals on the trip.”

“Then sure you can eat them here right away and wait before we can let you in.”

“I—pardon me?”

“Right? We need to make sure. Go on!”

“I am informed that the castle needs these all,” she gestured at the fabrics. “My old neighbor back home is ailing and he can use the wage to procure the medicine he needs, Sirs.”

“Just say you do not want to, Miss. I swear, we have had ladies rattled for His Lordship today.”

That really burned her fuse faster than the scorching heat could. She just got down from the carriage, barely even had a drink and did not dare to consume her sandwiches out of unsure for how long she would need to be there. She could not even find a committee, an official—or whatever it was the person in charge the castle had tasked the affair. She swallowed hard catching a glimpse of refreshing lemonade being carried in a silver basin, with goblets being lined up on a table. Not far from the elixir a gigantic meat platter had just been set for the beaming commoners who could not wait for the party to begin just to let themselves taste what they typically did not.

“I am sorry,” she gritted her teeth. “You misunderstand me. I _don’t like_ your lord.”

“W-what?”

“Rattling is overrated. I’d rather have _him_ rattle to apologize for inconveniencing me. Really, is this how he treats the people who work for the things he consumes at home? Despicable!”

“Y-you!”

“That’s right! Tell Marquis Ares that he should not think too highly of himself!”

“Enough, you wench! Not only suspicious, but your tongue truly asks for a muzzle, heh?!”

She bit her lips when one of the guards raised his hand at her. Part of her regretted for lashing out, recalling the old tailor’s concern at home. Perhaps her already unfavorable opinion of the birthday lord contributed to the short fuse. But she was at the road for around three hours, saving all her provision not knowing what to expect on the way to the castle town. She had vowed not to touch the royals and ruling figures after her perilous journey which landed her at the Nordion outskirts, and yet…

Would it be wise to strike back? But if she fought back they might truly think she was a spy or even worse—assassin. And by God, all she wanted was just meeting the person in charge to hand what they ordered, collecting the wage to bring back to her sick neighbor.

So she waited. She waited for the merciless gauntlet-gloved hand to ruin her face, praying that even if she was to endure it, they would be at least satisfied with her and it gave her a way to get inside the gate—or for the new guard to be better. She waited…

There was nothing. Not even after what felt like a minute or two—she did not know. She simply braced herself for a blow, and not thinking it helped her to withstand it.

There truly was none.

Blinking, she opened her eyes only to find someone putting his body before her, catching that balled fist with an absolute disgust being clearly spelt on his face. “… What do you think you are doing?”

She noted that the man before her was tall and well-built. His physique was not overly muscular like those hard laborers who worked the field or carpentry, but without a doubt he had to be someone with a decent prowess, judging from how firm his legs were planted on the ground and how steady he was when he moved fast to catch that fist. His voice was deep and low, speaking like he had that subtle threatening growl the way a lion warned prospective preys when announcing its arrival. When he raised an arm to shield her, she could make a view of his bicep lines and muscle shape because his clothing and the ribbons around his elbow did him justice.

“T-this wench here—“

“Lady,” the man cut in, slamming his own knuckles against the guard who collapsed like a sack.

She gasped.

“Darn it, Mother will kill me,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head while his sole insolently ran over the collapsed guard’s helmet. “Oi. Wake up, will you? One punch and you are out cold like this?”

“H-hold it for a second!” She did not know where that came from, but without a warning she grabbed him, taking him to run with her.

“Hey…” he blinked. But she did not give him a choice, and only everything Holy that should know how on earth she managed to drag him along like that. At the same time he truly wished he knew why he even let her take him to run like that. And my, the lady was sure a runner. They were at the bushes just behind the gate in a short time, and he began to wonder if he even made a wise decision at all to save her, let alone letting her drag him to run. What if she was a thief? The girl was rather small in stature, wearing a peasant’s long dress and she still managed to put up some speed.

“H-here we should be safe,” she panted. “Y-you just… you knocked him out easily like that.”

“No, it’s just him that is weak,” he deadpanned, confused that she gave him a look.

“Or perhaps you are just…”

“Strong?”

“Brazenly so!”

“Hmmm. Really?”

“You never realize?” she really, really wanted to yell at this stranger now. “Oh, wait. Your hat!”

“Well, I don’t pick fights because I like it,” he folded his arms. “And I know these clothes are flashy.”

“Nooo. The feather is askew…” she raised an arm. “… Good heavens, you are brazenly tall as well.”

“Here you go,” with a straight face he merely took the hat off and put it on her palm. “Well?”

“Well, if you would just twist the thread a little bit here…” she mumbled. Taking off a pin which held her outer skirt in place she stuck it into the thread she pointed at, she began working with his hat, making more turns and twists to pin back the askew feather. “… There, done~! I added more loop to keep it in place even if you dance.”

“I thank you,” he replied simply, taking back the hat with a slight bow to her before wearing it back.

Just then she realized she had not made the stranger’s appearance until now. First thing first he had beautiful blond hair. The ends reached his shoulders and those strands shone brilliantly under the sun. He also appeared to be well-groomed, because his face was clean-shaven and he had smelled like flowers when they got close as she took him to escape the guards. She imagined those with brute strength to be rowdy, but this stranger was anything but. There was that air of taciturnity about him, but rather than grumpy, the stranger was simply just… awkward to her. His eyes appeared alert and sharp but well-rounded that had their first meeting was not him taking down an armored guard with a punch like that, she would have thought of him to be akin to a… feline cub.

“Are you a traveler?” she asked. He had dressed brilliantly as well, and that robe with the overdress did not seem to be cheap either. The colors were also vivid, and she wondered if he even realized that he dressed fancily.

“No. Why?”

“You dress… umm…”

“Like a dandy?”

“Yeah! Don’t you fear bandits?”

“No?”

“Highwaymen?”

“Also no.”

She paused, watching the stranger once again. Perhaps he was just that confident of his martial prowess? Oh, right—he was armed too. And his sword was pretty uncommon—broadswords were ubiquitous, but his truly was something else—it was black and appearing mighty, and the dark purple-ish blue that was the scabbard did not help toning down the gruesome impression emanating from the weapon. The crossbar was decorated with a red gem—crimson like a pool of blood, while the back of the hilt had a green gem which… ironically, reminded her of life itself—the color of spring, lush trees…

“Do not appraise my sword.”

Startled, she scoffed. So he indeed had alert eyes. “A dandy like you already made a view, you know?”

“A dandy like me, you said,” he clasped his chin, and she wondered if he was mocking her because there was that mischievous glint in his eyes which she could not ignore—but why? What even was amusing? Someone well-off like this could not even procure a mirror to see that _yes,_ he was flashy. “And where are you from again, Miss?”

“Northern Nordion outskirts! It’s impolite to ask the same question without answering it first, you see?”

“Northern outskirts?” with one eyebrow up he looked at her again—so sharp and intense was his gaze that for a moment she thought she could blush. Lordy, first of all this stranger did not even realize he was strong. Second, he had no idea how flashy his appearance was. And now he was unaware that he was blessed with such handsome face and beautiful hair as well? If money was not tight, she would so love to donate him a mirror.

“Eh—yeah?” she put her hands on her hips. Daring, considering that regardless of how oblivious he was about everything, he just saved her. “I need to get in. To His Lordship’s folk party there.”

He caught her mumbling even before she could take it back. “And why?”

“Oh, God. Nobody ever said anything?” she shook her head, truly was displeased now. “No wonder His Lordship’s gate dogs were so ferocious like that.”

“Did they do anything bad?”

“What is it with you, though?”

“Because I need to know.”

His firm tone surprised her more than anything. It was like the stranger was personally concerned… no, nearly offended, even, like he had that anger underneath that he was so willing to join her disliking them. And she thought this person was just that—a dandy.

“Hnnn! Fine! It’s not like venting to you will bring out miracle, anyway,” she contemplated, toning her voice down. “The castle ordered various things from the Worker’s Alley at the outskirts. I’m a substitute on behalf of my neighboring old tailor. I’ve ridden here for these…” she gestured at her basket. “But His Lordship’s guards were so intense and rough that they kept stopping me at every keep and intersection. Now I can’t even get in, how am I going to be paid?”

“How much are you owed?”

“… I… I don’t know…” she bit her lips again. “Supposedly I’d just need to hand this and take the payment on behalf of the old tailor…”

“And these are all for Lord Ares?”

“Marquis he is now,” she corrected.

“Ah, no need to be concerned of small things,” the stranger replied casually. “Honestly, even ‘Sir Ares’ is fine. He does not actually care that much—this is not the throne room, anyway.”

“You sound so sure,” she remarked sullenly. “But whatever it is, His Lordship deserves a good smack across the face, forgive my foreign language skill there, Sir.”

“Oh?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Right? How come he had these planned without even batting an eye to at least be concerned of the people who crafted these things for him?! His guards could not even tell between a bandit and a peasant like me who just wanted to make my delivery through. Pray tell, do you think a bandit will be so stupid to parade their weapons knowing well how fortified Nordion is at the moment? Why don’t the guards just straight up ask if one is a bandit or not and proceed from there?” she huffed.

“Hmmm. I take that the guards are dumb, Miss.”

“But Marquis Ares must be dumber then, since the guards did so for him, no?” she huffed again while he watched. “And then he charmed folks everywhere by this supposed good looks or so I heard…”

“Ah. Good looks?”

“They said he is really handsome?” she blurted out mindlessly, clasping her chin to think hard. What did the people at the Worker’s Alley tell her again back then? “And that guard you put to sleep said these ladies are rattling over him. So, not only that he is dumb, he is a ladies’ man? How curious! See, you appear sharp too, but…” she stopped talking, realizing her spontaneity had long flown leaving its nest. “But that is no use if he is just dumb and inconsiderate. So I guess you are sharper,” she pouted a little bit, trying to neutralize the awkwardness her honest tongue caused.

“My, these people exaggerate a lot,” the stranger blurted. “Back to your trouble, Miss, after strolling around here it seems to me that the courtiers are still busy in the kitchen.”

“Lordy, no wonder nobody cared to answer me when I asked where the person in charge was—there was none!” she cupped her mouth. “Then what should I do with these napkins and handkerchiefs?”

“Let me take a look first, please,” the stranger had that twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Nooo! I’m not letting you seizing my goods!” she quickly put the basket behind her back. “And really—you are amused—why? I guess it isn’t just His Lordship that is dumb, his guests are.”

“Hmmm. Never know a fire-breathing dragon could come in this size.”

“That is the virtue of not being stupid, Sir, but I’m sure you do not know that,” she bit back.

“And what are those, inside the handkerchief, if I may?” unperturbed, he pointed at her basket.

“… My lunch,” she mumbled. “Or so I thought. I packed them because I’m not sure what to expect here, and the ride was not that easy, either. Is it…” she glanced down, examining the packed bread loaves. Her eyes shifted, containing waterfall she determined not to unleash before the stranger.

“Destroyed,” he finished her sentence in the similar deadpan manner like prior. “The guard did it?”

“Will be hard not to say no,” she responded, setting aside the handkerchief. “At least the orders from the castle were not damaged.”

“Then I’m not overdoing it by knocking him out cold,” the stranger replied firmly. “Come with me.”

“Eh—where to? Where are you taking me?!”

“Inside, Miss. Don’t you need to get in?”

“J-just like that? Easily?” she stopped and he waited patiently. “But what if…”

“They won’t,” he stretched a hand forward. “After you.”

She looked at him in disbelief. But the stranger merely followed her from behind, and she held her breath when they approached the gate. The stranger fixed his feathery hat once again, bowing a bit like he tried to cover his face—a gesture which did not even escape her either.

 _What a dandy,_ she thought, secretly taking a generous peek again. He was nicely clothed and even had a hat, yet mere sunlight scared him so much? And these distinguished guests thought they were so better than the peasants.

Still, it was rather nice of him, she thought again—because he indeed simply tailed her and even showed her around. Like magic, his words came true because nobody seemed to care enough stopping her at the gate, and even more so, he took her to the table with lemonade she saw prior.

“Will this be alright?” he asked, conveniently scooping some into one of the goblets.

“Y-yes,” she murmured. “Thank you, Sir.” Her face reddened a little bit when his eyes hammered on her again. She wiped her lips with her sleeve, realizing she must have been greedily consuming the refreshing liquid that there was nothing graceful or polite in what she just did. “I’m—I’m sorry, I haven’t had anything to drink since my trip coming here…”

“I see.”

“Well, different than dandies like you,” she chuckled to neutralize the awkwardness, rummaging through her basket to check if the ordered fabrics were still intact. “Hnnn. Yes, forty pieces with me still!”

“That one included?”

Her eyes landed on the specific fabric the stranger had asked. It was a black napkin with gold vegetal motif. Somehow she blushed a little. “I made that,” her voice was low. “I sewed it because the old tailor ran out of supplies just last night. We were not even informed that we were supposed to procure the material ourselves too—they are going to compensate us, they said, but to procure them of course you would need the money first in hand.”

“… I see,” he mumbled. “And how did you get the fabric for this one?”

“Oh, black color was not in much demand,” she explained. “It’s His Lordship’s birthday, they said, so they wanted something grand and vivid instead of this one. The color or death, or so they told me.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

“What? No! You can’t!”

“Why?”

“Because… because it is not supposed to be yours?” her eyes widened. “I mean—oh, dear Lord, have you been living under the rock or something? Of course you can’t just take things like that!”

“Ten franc and I take it, can I?” the stranger casually slipped his hand behind his overdress, putting the coins onto her open hand. “For the hard work, Miss.”

“Ten franc, Sir,” she contemplated. “You are paying me 200 sols just for this?”

“It seems I am,” he nodded. “Well, I believe you can find one of castle officials around here. And may everything be damned—honestly, they will not notice and Marquis Ares does not care if there are thirty nine napkins instead of forty.”

“Then it only convinces me that His Lordship indeed deserves a smack across the face,” she grumbled. “First of all—there is that with the guards I told you about. And now you are saying he does not care? All these efforts and everything—and you are saying he has the _gall_ to even dismiss our hard work?”

“I am sure you will be paid.”

“It’s not just about money!” she glared at him. “These lordlings seemed to think that is all that matters. Money! And the Devil be damned that even peasants have a soul and are entitled to a personhood!” she stuffed the coins back, clasping his palm closed. “No. I do not come here to beg, Sir.”

“I never imply you did, Miss.”

“Does not matter. The thing is, even if I did, it’s not like His Lordship’s guards wouldn’t kick me out like a dog,” she nearly bit her tongue out of feeling so frustrated and angry like that. “And I am free regardless of the things I do not possess. So yes, take that napkin.”

“For free?”

This time she mustered a smirk and he was taken aback by it. “Oh, yes. That sure will stay in your mind which… hopefully, teaches you dandies that the have-not gives better than the haves.”

“Hmmm. Such a fire-breathing dragon.”

“How can one not be, facing privileged folks like you.”

“You are too small to be a dragon, though—so… rabbit?”

“What?”

“Fire-breathing rabbit. Fire rabbit. Rabbit it is then, you have green hair and fire is not.”

“Done insulting me?”

“In what way am I insulting you?”

“My hair!”

“Green, I said, and that is a fact, is it not?” finally he could not help himself that he… chuckled.

This time it was she who was taken aback then. He truly looked different when he laughed like that. Gone was the traces of fierceness in those sharp eyes of his; instead, there was some kind of… tranquility and gentleness shimmering from them. She averted her eyes from his—was this the same person who deadpanned and acted on taciturnity when he viciously knocked down a guard like that?

“I suppose lion cubs are odd,” not wanting to miss a beat, she countered.

“Lion cub?”

“There, I counterattack you. Besides, you are already flashy, with hair so blond like that.”

“I do not mind.”

“… Odd fellow, aren’t you, Sir.”

“Thank you. I’m used to it.”

“… To being compared to a… lion cub?”

“Yes. My parents already called me so!” he replied confidently.

“Your parents are odd too then,” she grumbled. “Oh, is that a courtier over there…”

“I believe so. Later, Miss Rabbit,” he tipped his hat at her, quickly turning his back. She watched him with such astonishment—he truly casually turned around with her black napkin in his grip. She waited for him to toss it away, thinking he just had his fun toying and messing with her, anyway—but Sir Blond Dandy merely tucked the fabric behind his coat as he traced deeper into the compound of castle ground.

She stuck her tongue at him. Rich folks were so weird indeed!

* * *

 

He hurried back inside.

His long strands were quiet that they were almost soundless—just one of the things which he picked up from the Lionheart’s tutelage, which by now had become a habit. Nearly everyone in the castle knew he carried his walk this way, but this time they did not even dare to look at him because his expression was nowhere near amiable—he was frowning deeply, and such grave expression only got to be more intense the moment he returned from the backdoor via the riding passage one could get through from the duchess’ flower garden. His sudden arrival from there startled Sir Alva and his cousin Diarmuid, who warmly welcomed him.

“There you are, Ares! Everyone has been waiting for you!” Diarmuid waved at him. “Sir Alva and I were just about to take the horse to look for you. What got you preoccupied?”

“I can’t believe none of you told me you had planned a literal feast for me,” his voice was gruff.

Sensing the displeasure Alva quickly took control of the situation, attempting to diffuse the young lord’s concern by offering an expected explanation. “Please do not fault the duchess, my lord. She has been wanting to give you something meaningful, but knowing that Your Lordship much prefer the matters of warfare, Her Grace knew it was beyond her expertise. And Your Lordship does not fancy finesse either.”

“That is beyond my concern at the moment, Sir Alva. Besides—why would my dear mother trouble herself so much? I’ve been blessed with her love and care, it is everything a son can ask for.”

“Then what is bothering you?” Diarmuid cut in. “People don’t normally despise their own party, Ares.”

“Now you have one,” the birthday lord responded. Without any hesitation he steered his feet towards the kitchen where servants were busying themselves with everything they would put for the banquet. Ignoring confused stares from his knight and cousin alike, Ares opened the door to the major kitchen. He had purposefully gone there expecting courtiers and possibly footmen to be there to supervise servants and maids who helped with the cooking instead of the minor pantry upstairs where refreshments and snacks were served for the royal family’s delight.

“It is the marquis!” one of the maids cried upon noticing his arrival. Everyone stopped everything they were doing, looking at him curiously. “My lord, what have brought you here?”

“Who is the person in charge for these all?” his question was unforgivingly sharp. “Bring them to me.”

“Why, Your Lordship, is there something you find… flawed?”

“Yes!”

Everyone shuddered because the lord was practically growling now. A couple of workers rushed outside to find the person their lord demanded, and it did not take long for such person to make an appearance in the kitchen, probably having been informed of the marquis’… _wrath._

“Why must you be so wrathful again?” Diarmuid took turn frowning because his cousin truly waited for the person to come with his hands on his hips. “If there is something you find lacking…”

“Trust me, Diarmuid, you would not want to know _my_ version of wrathful,” Ares finished his sentence off, still glaring like a preying eagle. “Well! Good midday to you, Sir!”

The person servants brought to him turned out to be one of the lower courtiers responsible for running things smoothly in the household. He appeared to be nervous—at least judging from the hundredth time he fidgeted with his cravat. “How may I be of assistance, my lord?”

“Have the people of the Worker's Alley at the northern outskirts been paid?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Right. Have they, or have they not?”

“M-my lord.”

“I take that you haven’t. Why did not you just take a couple of folks from here and ride straight to the outskirts to collect what you ordered?” Ares asked again. “Such a hassle. And then you and the guards complain about the castle town being swarmed by peasants. This place isn’t lacking a fine mount!”

“S-sure it isn’t, my lord.”

“And then why?” Ares kept pursuing, the way a lion would to a prey. Hissing, he took a step closer, scaring everyone else and more so the careless courtier. “… Do not treat me like a simpleton, Sir.”

“I-I wouldn’t dare, my lord.”

“So answer me instead,” he barked again. “Why? And what have you done to ensure these workers were compensated for all the hard work they put into the goods we ordered? The outskirts are not that close to Nordion castle town. My father wishes to treat all his subjects equally, so how dare you!”

“L-Lord Ares.”

“Marquis,” he hissed, not sure why that even mattered now. He was grateful the fire-breathing rabbit from prior totally did not recognize him, but somehow right here he wanted it to matter. If they were going to abuse authorities, then… might as well make his own subjects that there was a sky above a sky.

“M-my lord.”

“I don’t know how you should do it, and frankly I don’t care,” the angry lion cub arched his back forward, disregarding the courtier’s fright and discomfort. “Gather the people who have come here like that one dame in pink dress and braided green ponytail and give what they are owed.”

“T-that I shall.”

“And make sure they have something to eat and drink, or…”

“O-or?”

“Or I want no part in this party?”

“H-holy God. Ares!”

“That’s right, Diarmuid. I love my mother and that is why I’m still here in this garb,” without hesitation he took Diarmuid’s arm with him. “And I trust our loyal knight can supervise my demand!”

“That wasn’t what His Grace ordered me to, my lord…”

“Then this is _my_ order. I want no fool ruining my mother’s party, Sir Alva,” Ares glared. “Meanwhile my cousin can fill me in with all the guests and whatnot. Including the princesses I might as well avoid!”

Diarmuid had no choice but following the birthday lord around. The duke and the duchess were behaving rather awkwardly by the time their cub was back in the throne room. But his parents’ predicament was less interesting to him at the moment—even though he found his mother seating herself in the Lionheart’s lap, with rather unkempt hair and his father looking less sharp compared to when he left them because his cravat was askew and his coat unbuttoned. Needless to say the cub’s return caught everyone off guard, and Duke Eldigan frowned even deeper than his son when Diarmuid relayed what happened at the kitchen. “That bad? Are you sure it is not just this lady who…”

“Well, even if she was ill-prepared, Lord Father,” Ares cocked an eyebrow. “Still poor management.”

“Hmmm. I’ll sort it out. You come out first with your mother.”

“No need. I did,” there was a hint of ferocity in his eyes when the cub grinned. “Let’s just say I just issued my first order as a marquis, Lord Papa.”

“Hmmm. And this lady you spoke of?”

“Just a fair dame from the Worker’s Alley of the northern outskirts.”

Duke Eldigan lifted his eyes off the wine he savored.

“I mean—fire dame.”

“Fire dame, my cub?”

“Ire dame—blast—“

“Don’t cuss with your mother around.”

“Well, then I better be off somewhere else to cuss without dear Mama around,” the birthday lord quickly grabbed Diarmuid with him again. “And I’ll need my cousin so I don’t suffer alone.”

“Don’t cuss at the princesses as well.”

“I’ll be good, Lord Father. Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t,” Duke Eldigan deadpanned in the same manner as his cub did before his burst of laughter flew out. “Alright, alright. Eve?”

“Here, Your Grace.”

“Since the marquis succeeded losing Sir Alva’s track, I hope he fails you.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye on Marquis Ares,” the knight banished his chuckles deep down into his throat.

“It’s not like I entertain myself with stories of how the guards abusing the peasants,” Ares grumbled again. “Like you said, Lord Papa, what is chivalry, if not to shield the needing ones?”

“… I guess I have no choice,” Duke Eldigan kicked his heels off the chair. “Guide me, dear?” he smiled.

“Certainly,” the duchess followed suit, looking more than relieved to be able to remove herself and the duke before their alert cub noticed their predicament. “Really, I thought I’ve made it clear to the person in charge that we are setting up a drop post so these workers can just deliver and get paid instantly.”

“I should have knocked him out too then,” Ares gritted his teeth.

“Too?” the duchess folded her arms. “Ares…”

“I’m not fighting, Mother!”

“Sure you aren’t, if your opponent has no chance to begin with,” the duchess sighed. “God, sometimes I don’t know whether I have to be proud of you or lament you.”

“You can think thoroughly because I’m disappearing—again,” Ares quickly bent down, darting a quick kiss on his mother’s forehead before storming out of the throne room again with Diarmuid at his mercy.

* * *

 

Outside, everything was even merrier compared to what he witnessed prior. He could see musicians flocking into the gate, ready to take positions at the center of the square his troopers and castle workers had cleared for the purpose of the party. Fresh flowers decorated the venue, bringing in the late-spring atmosphere as well as colors. He was informed that the people had cleared the square, raking it of fallen leaves while castle workers brought wooden tables and food with everything else to be spread.

He watched everything with clouded mind now. Even under the roof of Nordion castle his courtier still mistreated peasants. Somehow the fiery green-haired rabbit— _lady,_ he mused—provoked him enough with her ardent speeches. Were there many more like her? And speaking of whom, at a glance he could assess that her sandwiches were very modest—like glazed with butter and fruit jam. Even the infantrymen he camped with at the garrisons he visited with his father had better ration, and they hunted and cooked their own food only if the march became perilous enough like a real war.

And he did not even know that ten franc for a napkin—200 sols—was such a high price for her. He had sincerely meant it as an appreciation—and hopefully a consolation since she appeared to be exhausted, but never he imagined that the gesture had an impact more than what he anticipated. The lady even blatantly refused his money, and despite his well intention, it seemed he offended her dignity.

 _His Lordship deserves a good smack across the face,_ she had said. And apparently there was this thing about how he got to be dumb and according to her dumb men could not be handsome. Yet under the same breath and sentence, she subtly praised his good looks?

“What’s so funny?”

Startled, he put down his hand which previously covered half of his face. “I’m not laughing, Diarmuid.”

“I know, Ares. Scarier if you are,” Diarmuid remarked. “But you are amused.”

“… Amused and bemused,” he nodded. “I did not even know one could feel both at the same time.”

Diarmuid had no time to inquire further because people began pouring into the venue, including the Nordion sovereign pair who wasted no time to introduce their cub to prominent guests. In a short while Ares found himself standing with a line of people waiting to greet him or be introduced to him—dignitaries from all over Agustria and even Jugdral, representatives from other royal houses of Agustria, including titled and crowned heads from other parts of Jugdral. The duke did not hold back his happiness upon finding the familiar faces of his loyal close friends being among the guests who seated themselves in the specific part of the square meant for royals and distinguished faces selected by the Nordion sovereign, whom, by the suggestion of his consort, decided to group people based on their allegiance mixed with foreign dignitaries to keep the conversation flowing, neutral, and open.

“Well, well, whom do we have here?” the duke stood up when certain faces got close to him after being cleared by two of the triplets since Alva was still busy being the herd dog in the kitchen.

“Well met, Eldie!” a man in regal brown-haired suit approached, warmly hugging the duke. “And this must be the birthday prince for today?”

“Not a prince, Your Royal Highness,” the newly-appointed marquis stood up to follow suit, bowing to the newly-arriving guest. “How fare you, Princess Ethlyn?”

“Oh, look, the charmer,” the woman in regal pink dress chuckled, letting Ares kiss her hand. “We bring the youngins with us too. Altena, Leif?”

“Look at you,” Leif, the brown-haired younger child of the Leonsterian crown-princely family, grinned like no other when meeting him. “I didn’t think this would be you if Mother did not even say.”

“Simplify, you gave me headache,” Ares glared at him.

Leif smirked, moving closer to speak to him. “… You are flashily ugly.”

The Nordion cub snorted. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Altena was about to laugh but decided to put up her older sister expression to rival Leif’s mischief. Duke Eldigan was a good friend with their father—the Crown Prince Quan of Leonster—as well as with Marquis Sigurd, son of the benevolent Duke Vylon of Chalphy. Their friendships grew even stronger as each lord built up their own family, and right now such closeness was equally shared by their offspring. “Well met, Marquis Ares,” she gave out a mature smile. “Happy birthday?”

“That is how you properly greet your host, you mandrake,” Ares grinned at Leif. “The pleasure is mine, Princess Altena.”

“Shush. Just Altena is fine,” the princess threw her beautiful long brown hair behind her shoulders. “And no, no debate. You are the one having a birthday here, at least you are entitled of something nice.”

“We do get you something nice,” Leif joined in. “Oh, look, another guest.”

“Hmmm!” Ares nodded at the direction Leif pointed out. There was a boisterous laughter coming from the other direction, followed by people’s chatters. He watched, regardless. The Chalphian royal family made quite a view. Even outside of Grannvale, Marquis Sigurd’s good name was hard to escape from, befitting the reputation endowed in him. Marquis Sigurd was a people’s person, liked by many for his simple sincerity, which touched the hearts of many more than his lordly peers ever could. The oddball, as his mother once put it—the Chalphian marquis was good-natured but rather reckless, a trait which often put the duke in between for wanting to help him sort things out. Regardless, as sullen as his mother might be, even she could not deny the good-natured of the marquis.

“Prince Ares!” another man with long braided blue hair waved at him, rushing to get to his seat before his parents could. “How are you this fine day? You are looking magnificent as always!”

“Prince Seliph.”

“I’m not a prince, though.”

“Then why are you calling me like that?”

“Haha, you are right…” the blue-haired man simply chuckled, truly unflinching even though the lion cub’s reply sounded rather crass. “Well, I hope we can return the courtesy as you like it! My mother is more than delighted to present you with all the beautiful cuisines she managed to master during her time in Verdane. And we have well-rounded cake too for you and everyone else here.”

There was a small smile faintly emerging on the Nordion marquis’ lips when his Chalphian counterpart spoke like that. “I just don’t get it, Seliph. You are my guest here, yet you serve me—no, my people too.”

“Is it bad?” the Chalphian nobleman chuckled, casually taking a seat beside his cousin, Leif. “I always love to give back, anyway—my lord father never stressed it enough.”

The marquis smiled wider. “I shall accept. But do have a bite too, or I bludgeon you.”

“Worry not. Foods are best when consumed with the best of friends!”

Guests began pouring into the square as the clock ticked. Faces familiar and not filled the square, taking all the designated seats, surrounding themselves with various refreshments and chatters as musicians began to play. Ares was given the center seat for himself while the duke and duchess took the sides, mingling with Prince Quan and Princess Ethlyn of Leonster with Marquis Sigurd and Marchioness Deirdre of Chalphy. Their children were more than delighted to fill the seats to the left side of the Nordion cub, and it did not take long for Ares to exchange banters and chatters with Princess Altena and Prince Leif of Leonster as Earl Seliph of Chalphy joined them. Ares entertained himself in the company of Princess Altena while her brother Prince Leif formed an alliance of mischiefs and mishaps with Diarmuid.

“And who is that again?” Ares nudged Seliph when another distinguished entourage entered.

Seliph’s smile was rather tight although his eyes softened at a certain direction. “The Velthomers, you mean? Sure you know Duke Arvis and his children Julius and Julia.”

“I don’t,” Ares merely shrugged. “Or perhaps you’d rather say I don’t care. I spent these years outside at the field most of the time, anyway. I can use the experience because you know me and a desk work are not a match.”

“Well, Ares…”

“I’m not my father.”

Seliph merely smiled, deciding to focus on the Velthomer royals instead. “Lady Julia is rather quiet but she makes a treasurable companion once you get to know her,” he started. “Perhaps she just concluded her education?”

“I didn’t even know this Lady Julia existed until today, Seliph.”

Leif snorted. “If our Ares paid attention to the dames, there might be a natural disaster coming.”

“That proves I’m not a swine, dimwit.”

“There, there, that tongue needs a master!” Leif sighed. “Let me guess. None so far?”

“Like hell I’d let anyone rule over me,” Ares spat. “I’ve no desire to master anyone either.”

“Liar. What about that one?” Leif struck back.

Ares followed where he pointed and laughed. “You have a point. Yes, that’s my bride—my stallion.”

“And that older man with reddish-auburn hair with them?” Leif chirped again, nudging Seliph.

“The bishop Saias you mean?”

“That one is a priest? But he is so young!”

“I don’t know about his monastic oath, really. He is a scholar and apparently a relative of those two,” Seliph spoke again. “Julius isn’t really fond of me and they don’t seem to take it kindly that I socialize with Lady Julia over there.”

“You, having an enemy,” Leif blurted. “Unbelievable.”

“Then how come Duke Arvis is so keen on marrying Lady Julia off?”

“Simple. Something you men will not understand,” Altena chimed in after following the conversation as a silent listener. “She is a woman. That is the root there.”

“Come on, Princess.”

“Do not start with me,” she bit her tongue. “This Lady Julia is a delightful girl but rather shy. Apparently that alone is enough to ruffle those old men in charge—won’t be getting a husband that way.”

“Must she?”

“Oh, Seliph, dear cousin. You are so _green_ ,” Altena smirked bitterly. “I’m getting more mead for us.”

“I don’t get it,” Seliph remarked. “She is so young.”

“My sister is rather incessant about that,” Leif responded after a thought. “Perhaps…”

They waited, but Ares shook his head. “Perhaps we should leave it at that. I’m not snooping on ladies.”

“Then perhaps you can help,” Leif tried again, craning his neck to see if Altena was close by. “Perhaps if you would… you know, considering you both are close by age—save her or some sort—“

“… Leif.”

“Nordion is decent and our fathers…”

“Leif.”

“… Don’t you find my sister… excellent?”

“I do. Of course I do. And I believe so do people with an active brain cell,” the Nordion cub responded with a scoff. “She will be the queen of Leonster, should be able to have anyone she wants.”

“If,” Leif fidgeted a little bit. “You know, since some old nobles are just… and she is a woman…”

“What does that even have to do with anything? I thought the family heirloom lance falls on her hand!”

“And she is capable to wield it, yes,” Leif sighed. “That is the irony. They don’t like it.”

“How weird. Why must she listen to them—she should just bludgeon them all, she’s got a lance.” Seliph snorted while he fumed. Suddenly the coming-of-age birthday did not feel as pleasant as he hoped to be. He had endured dressing in the clothes he typically would not even touch. He let people be utterly formal with him. He had listened to people demanding him to do things, and the first thing he asked of his court was not even for himself—but the neglected people who resided at the Worker’s Alley. And now that he thought everything was sorted out, now that their fathers basked themselves in the relaxing atmosphere of beautiful friendship, suddenly the nuance shared between his friends appeared to be rather depressing and bleak.

Ares darted a glance around, watching his guests as his mind raced again. Suddenly he was filled with dread. Who would go first—he, or Diarmuid? Or Nanna? He really could not imagine the girl whom he had thought as his own treasured, loved, protected younger sister all these years would have to rescind herself from everything she knew to start a journey with a strange man out of necessity. Did Sir Finn require a primogeniture to ensure his bloodline? The man did not strike him as imposing; if anything he seemed to simply cave in to his formidable aunt instead.

… Then there was him. Suddenly the questions his parents had raised subtly hammered his head. Was the duchess serious when she asked? Was his father secretly enthusiastic when he misspoke of a lady? Suddenly his own situation felt cast a grim shadow—he was the Lionheart’s only child, an heir, hardly even active attendee of social events where other nobles would mingle and be merry. Were his parents secretly… worried? Was there more in the duchess’ words each time she sighed and protested because of his… errr, martial pursuits, but too hesitant to tell him?

Ares peeked at the returning Altena from the corner of his eyes. The princess carried a tray with goblets for them, her expression being cloudy. “Duke Eldigan did not say he invited King Travant and Prince Arion,” she remarked frankly, more like an accusation than a simple statement.

“This Duke Eldigan did not even say he had this arranged for me,” Ares responded in a simple manner.

“I know my father is yours’ friend and he understood that our countries are not in the best terms,” the Leonsterian princess sighed deeply. “But he could at least treat him and Arion with the same dignified bearing he graced us here. Prince Arion is not even a bad person…”

“Arion, Altena?”

The princess hammered her trained fist under the table, causing the Nordion cub to cough.

“In my opinion, though, you should be queen.”

“In my own opinion as well, it is not a bad thing,” Leif chimed in.

“In my opinion, you sure are a formidable figure, milady,” Seliph joined them.

“In my opinion, however, they should hear _my_ opinion,” Altena took down her mead in one big gulp. “My father is still the kindest man I know and has no problem naming me, but…”

“You have a lance,” Ares remarked.

“You have a supporting brother,” Leif chimed in again.

“You have an admiring cousin,” Seliph nodded earnestly. “Perhaps you can solve this old-age enmity better than anyone who has tried so far, who knows?”

“If I got to be queen,” Altena remarked sourly. “I love my father to bits, but he is not perfect.”

“So is mine, apparently,” Ares toasted his goblet with Altena’s mindlessly before downing the liquid. “Even the Lionheart has flaws too. Really, I hardly listen to feelings but I should probably have, considering this dread I have in mind now that everything is clear.”

“What is?”

Ares did not answer. His mind was miles away as his eyes began to wonder once again. Suddenly the air around him felt so tight. Suddenly there was nothing merry about the party anymore. At least in the throne room he would be surrounded by familiar faces, where the objective was clear—that he was to learn close by the Lionheart now that he was officially an heir. But here…

He looked around—again. There were beautiful young women around, dressed splendidly in colorful robes and clothes, with their servants running behind them bringing umbrellas. His mind fell on some figure in elaborated costume, which he instantly concluded to be way too tacky for his taste as if the color scheme personally offended him. And he wondered who that was considering such colors were too daring for a man old enough to be his uncle—older than his own father, even.

“Who is that one again?” he whispered to Diarmuid, who instantly snapped out of his own staring-observing adventure. “… Really, cousin?”

“That Lady Julia Earl Seliph spoke of is quite a beauty, don’t you think?” he cleared his throat. “And…”

“Yes, yes, but that’s not what I asked—that enrobed figure chatting with Duke Arvis.”

Diarmuid craned his neck. “Not sure. But I can try.”

“He’s like ogling those ladies, don’t you think?” Ares remarked sourly. “Who the hell is that again? I want him removed.”

“Or perhaps he is looking for someone he knows?” Diarmuid raised an eyebrow. “What is this sudden protectiveness towards the fairer sex, Lord Cousin?”

“Why not? Judging from the ‘sudden’ part you said there, sounds like the protection is overdue.”

Diarmuid watched the person Ares had pointed. “That one. I heard he is a former merchant. Probably an acquaintance of Duke Arvis. I’m not a telltale, thank you,” he huffed.

“Well, I largely spent my time in the wilderness with the knights but you travel a lot,” Ares scoffed back. “And you have been with Aunt Lachesis to help her silk business. And the rich befriends the rich.”

“I’m not befriending old men,” Diarmuid chuckled earnestly. “You are rich yourself.”

“Don’t even bloody think of it,” the birthday lord contemplated the ten franc he still clasped in his hand. “Sometimes even I cannot buy things.”

“Gracious Lord. Then what was it if it was even unsuitable for your pocket?”

“Dignity.”

“… What?”

“I guess this should just be yours,” the Nordion marquis threw his reply mindlessly like prior, dumping the money over the table to the questioning look of Diarmuid. He was not sure what to call all these concerns anymore—dread? Anxiety? Or merely a whim? Was he even thinking too much? And even if he should marry…

He darted a glance at the part of the square where their elders were seated. His mind tried to mess with him again so easily, especially looking at the serenity shared among the female royals over there. Was Marchioness Deirdre laughing because she wanted it—or because Marquis Sigurd laughed first? Did Princess Ethlyn truly like being there? Did she know anything about the troubles looming at her own court as well as those clouding her own daughter’s mind? And there was his mother—

… Did his father truly love his mother?

He growled, startling his own friends at their seats. This was too much. The colors were too vivid too, and the sunlight perhaps was just that strong. Why was he even there? Why—

_—His Lordship deserves a good smack across the face—_

He growled again, suddenly realizing how small and incapable he was. Behind the wealth and privilege shrouding him for his Nordion blood, behind his own prowess which he though was enough to sort his problems out—and shield people. Behind his trusted friends who probably would leave him someday under some… uncanny circumstances. His position did not even grant him knowledge of what happened under the wing of his own castle, and helping that fire-breathing rabbit from prior made him realize how easy it was for power to be abused. True that those who recognized him did not barricade his way when he casually took her inside the gate—but how about those who did not? Were the people who prostrated to him in the throne room doing it simply because they should, simply because he had the Lionheart’s blood, or because they truly wanted to see Nordion under his leadership? Were the knights who praised him on the marches and trainings doing it sincerely or because he was the Lionheart’s cub?

 _No wonder Aunt Lachesis was fiery,_ he thought again. And that was one noblewoman with all the privileges she could reap—her being the Lionheart’s sister as well as marrying one of the most promising warriors in all of Jugdral whose valor and loyalty landed him to the position of knight commander relatively younger compared to his predecessors. Judging from how much Prince Quan valued Sir Finn and his own friendship with the Lionheart, there would be no doubt that Lady Lachesis was treated better than decent in Leonster.

And then as prominent as she was, Altena could not even get through traditionalists to grant Thracia a chance. To let Travant and Arion mingle with them instead of isolating them from the rest of the diplomatic circle hoping to pressure them into their diplomatic circle that way.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he thought again, feeling Mystletainn by his waist. Did he even truly earn it, or was his father just… just needing something grand since he would be named heir when he turned twenty-one? The sword did feel good in his hand, but was it enough? Was his skill enough? Was _he_ … enough?

He wished the peasant girl from prior truly stayed to give him the good smack she talked of.

* * *

 

Her eyes sparkled as she stored the money pouch back behind her corset. Pinning it tightly to her dress she really did not know that her trouble was truly sorted out rather immediately—after the dandy left her with the food and drink to—ah, she did not even know!—tend to his own business, she supposed, she approached a courtier, who looked rather pale as if some demon just attempted to choke him alive just seconds prior. And it was rather odd although she did not mind because the courtier simply handed the wage and did not bother to check if the napkins lacked by one since the dandy took the black one.

“I’m such an idiot,” she contemplated on herself as her mind took her to the dandy again. “It’s not like I get to own that much just in a day for selling one item and then…”

But the way he handed the money, however—there was something she could not fathom yet—it was rather apologetic yet sincere at the same time, akin to the look passerby spared to a sick stray kitten at the street.

She pursed her lips. She should have known that dignity was affordable only by the rich, but—

“Perhaps he thinks I’m a madwoman,” she muttered, recalling how deliberate she had been with him when she vented about the guard and Lord Ares to him. And—right, sewing his feather back too.

She wanted to go home. To be away from this frivolity. But the old tailor was right—she entertained and hardly got entertained herself, and there was good food, nice drinks, a merry crowd, pleasant music…

She got paid, anyway. She could go back anytime. But chances were this would be the last chance for her to ever attend a titled head’s folk party like this. After all, who could guarantee that other lands would be as kind as Nordion like this? They might feast their own nobles behind those thick castle walls and fortified gates instead of doing a semi-open house the way the Nordions did.

Mellifluous melodies attacked her senses pleasantly that she tilted her head. The musicians were now forming a string quartet to serenade the attendees, and her trained, professional entertainer ears quickly caught what they were doing—the chiaranzana country dance. People laughed and chattered as men and women formed two parallel lines, holding hands with each pair lifting their conjoined arms creating nice wave as individuals and other couples moved under them.

Social dances… and her mind raced again. Just another thing she never got. She was eighteen. She should be getting a ball like any other—

With that, she stopped. Her smile was sad as her eyes were back to tether themselves at a crowd of spectacularly-dressed noblewomen who formed a separate circle for their own chiaranzana nearby. _I should not,_ she murmured to herself like attempting a warning. _After all, I am no longer a—_

“Candies?”

She startled. Gloved servants in uniform raced around the square with bowls on their trays. “Me?”

“Yes, including you. Direct order from the heir,” the servant grimaced. “So yes or no?”

“Not if you wrinkle your nose like that.”

“No then,” the servant scoffed. “Ungrateful wench.”

She stuck her tongue when the servant turned his back from her. But still, something caught her attention. Duke Eldigan and Marquis who-deserved-getting-smacked-on-the-face Ares ordered this? True that the pay flowed better, but how? If the duke had no idea about this prior, then someone should be aware of the chaotic situation to tell him. And who?

“Why would I concern myself again? Might just go home,” she huffed, watching other peasants looking so pleasantly surprised when being told they could also have the meat, honey, and sweets just like the distinguished guests there. “… Oh, Lord. I’m indeed an idiot,” she squeaked, looking at the candies in a rather longing manner. Sugar was expensive! Snacks were a bonus! And the holy be damned, she had a sweet tooth. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

But she wasn’t going to take the treats if the way of giving it was akin to feeding a dog!

She pursed her lips again. Perhaps those nobles’ dogs ate better than what she had back home…

“Not dancing?” one of the commoners nudged her. “We are lacking a person! Come, even us?”

Her youthful heart gave in. She liked it anyway. And damn again—she was _great_ at it. Why not? “Sure!” she smiled cheerfully, following the commoners who already lined up. The string quartet fiddled again, cueing for yet another chiaranzana while those who just want to dance but not wanting to do chiaranzana made their own space and moved.

Her eyes darted on the distinctive parts of the square where the crowned heads sat. Suddenly her cheeks felt aflame upon noticing that the tables bore the napkins she delivered, and somehow she wondered where Sir Blond Dandy had been seated considering only those tables got her napkins. Feeling ridiculous to be shy at her own thoughts, however, she tried to reason—Sir Blond Dandy might be just a nobody who wasn’t important enough to sit with the royals there, and he simply fancied the napkin while taking pity of her. Just because someone was rich did not automatically made one a royal.

Right now, those tables were rather empty because the royals were either dancing themselves or using other people’s business to move freely to get their own platters of everything. She caught the slender figure of a long, blue-haired royalty bearing the crest of Chalphy returning to one of those tables, unfolding the napkin which she instantly recognized as one of her deliveries. One by one the royals gathered back as the music began to end. By the time musicians stopped their fingers over their respective musical instrument, so did the rich and distinguished guests and commoners alike from dancing. Musicians tilted at the royal section, bowing, and the commoners and distinguished rich-but-not-titled guests bowed and curtsied to the Nordion royal family as a sign of respect and gratitude.

Commoners and distinguished guests dispersed, taking their own seat in the communal long tables to have their own food and drink. Some commoners were seen leaving after getting enough merriment for themselves while castle workers were back to be hot on their heels to distribute foods.

She decided to wait until the crowd dispersed more, thinking that not even a carriage could be hired if everyone was still being merry at the square like this. Watching the royals being served and dining with their silver cutleries, she saw each of them unfolding each of the napkins she delivered—the floral motif ones, the green ones, the blue ones, and…

She gasped. Her hand rested over her mouth upon recognizing that one piece which occupied her mind prior—the black one, the unusual makeshift nobody else wanted but Sir Blond Dandy conveniently resting in one of those special and strategic seats at the royal section. The table which had it was well-guarded with knights on standby, and her heart throbbed with intense curiosity then.

Sir Blond Dandy was a royal? And important enough to receive such treatment? Who was he then? Probably a foreign dignitary, which explained those awkward lines she called dumb prior…

“One of those Miletos ladies just wouldn’t let go of me,” she faintly heard a voice followed by sounds of footsteps. “Goodness. When will this one end? Until my dear mother satisfied enough tormenting me?”

“She is smitten,” she heard another sound—this time from a young man with brown hair whose cape was pinned with a brooch bearing the crest of Leonster. “Aren’t you going to give another chance?”

“Tough luck. Why would you want to be with someone you want to escape from?”

The late-arriving royals occupied their seats. And by then she was already pretty close to their section, watching them unfolding their napkins one by one as servants served food.

“Oh, goodness!!” she did squeal this time. There it was—the black napkin. And it was now conveniently resting on the center table, being unfolded by none other than Sir Blond Dandy.

… Or should she say, the marquis himself. It was him. It truly was him, judging from the way servants treated him, the way they spoke to him. And those other lords—the prince of Leonster, the earl of Chalphy… now it explained everything, especially when they called him by his name—

Ares.

Ares, the birthday lord, the young marquis of Nordion, the lion cub. The man she declared dumb just a few hours prior, the man who called her fire-breathing rabbit, the man who just offered ten franc for the napkin, and the man who knocked out a guard cold with a single punch—the same awkward man whose body she kind of _read._ The man she called—handsome?

Perhaps he was a lion cub indeed. Perhaps he was indeed handsome. Perhaps he was rather dumb—or just a little bit, because the moment he was seated, those sharp eyes scanned his surroundings again in the typical alert manner, and just her luck, those eyes also found hers—her person, her pink dress, her braided green hair, and definitely her squealing voice now that she was close and he sat in front of her.

“… The marquis?” she whispered to a nearby servant, feeling like choking on her own breath.

He cleared his throat. Faint enough for everyone else to hear, but loud and clear enough for her ears. Slowly she tilted her head to face him, surprised and startled like she just witnessed a ghost. Her cheeks felt like melting just as much as she wanted to die out of embarrassment, let alone when the brazenly tall and handsome marquis casually tipped his hat at her like making a gentlemanly salute.

“Fancy the dance?”

His voice was deep and rich, and the corner of his mouth twitched again in that manner only he could, making her mind race at the speed of a galloping warhorse—

 _Such a leonine smile,_ she pondered, tightly clasping her hand over her mouth because she was so close to shout _Oh God you are the dumb dandy from prior_ with all her might—wise choice, perhaps, considering she was close to dying out of embarrassment.

… Such a leonine smile…

_—Such a raw, tempting leonine smile—_

Perhaps this one truly was a lion cub after all.


	4. Fracture

If there was something he wanted to be honest about—no, contrary to popular belief—or so he concluded after witnessing her expression when she got to face him—he did not address her like that just to spite her. If anything, something indeed felt amusing, the way she was genuinely surprised by everything, the way she even _shouted_ it at his face. In the midst of people deferring to him because his father just made him a marquis—complete with his sudden self-doubt whether he truly mattered in the eyes of his own subordinates—her reactions were refreshing.

… Considering he wished she would truly smack him as she said just a moment prior, seeing her again somehow brought relief to him—that in between of this sudden bleakness of what constituted as behaving as a royalty, hearing her shouting at him like that felt so… real. If only he did not have to bear such thoughts—the party left him feeling surreal, even more so when he encountered her and saw it on his own how badly his guards behaved. The Lionheart kept telling him that—to never mistreat commoners, to never fail respecting ladies. Yet that was exactly what happened, so…

He glanced around. Seliph, Leif, and Altena did not seem to notice that this peasant girl was basically looking at him, feet nailed onto the ground while he behaved like he was gauging the best way to react as well. And the moment their eyes met again, he saw it—the fire slowly burning in her eyes, as if scolding him for not saying a word that he was indeed the marquis. Glancing at his side once again he could have sworn his cousin Diarmuid had not yet blinked from the direction where Lady Julia sat, but he decided to let it go—Diarmuid was dumb, anyway—or so he thought.

She did not leave—if anything, her eyes were focused on the black napkin he simply unfolded. It would be impossible to ignore the fire slowly burning in her eyes the longer she exchanged glances between the napkin and himself, because her expression shifted that the previous astonishment gradually changed into a… frown. Deep, deep frown, and that her hands were placed on her hips.

Needless to say, she looked displeased. Even he could not deny that. What he was eager to know was—why. There was this urge to just leap from the place he was seated to engage her into a conversation again, because… did he not do the right thing this time? He made his own courtiers know that he was angry. He sorted the problem even before his own parents knew anything about it. And he hoped the workers were paid even before he got back to the party, judging from two-three particular crowds separated from other people who were eating or dancing.

He craned his neck to get a better look on the said crowds. Right, he recognized one of them to be the courtier he glared at in the kitchen. Said courtier, helped by a couple of footmen, was holding something like a wooden chest while the footmen readied behind him with parchments and writing utensils.

“For God’s sake, would someone get me a table. You can’t do this while standing,” he could hear the courtier sighing. The footman looked left and right before getting a knight to ask for the table he wanted, and the knight then returned with a simple wooden piece while his other hand was feeling his jaw.

“Well, here you go, Sir,” the knight murmured, walking with staggered steps as he headed to return to his post. “Gracious Lord. The marquis punched like a lion.”

The courtier shot him a look. “You angered the marquis as well?”

“What do you mean—as well?” the knight returned the look. “I don’t get it myself. I was just scanning our folks out there as always for security measures. Isn’t that what he wanted? I did not see him coming but it was still unusual of him to throw temper tantrum just for that seamstress.”

“Seamstress!” the courtier gasped. “You are saying the marquis punched you out of a peasant girl.”

“If only that was not the case, but yes. Pray tell, my good sir—did this wench cause you trouble as well? The marquis initially had no idea that the duke and the duchess planned this party,” the knight winced, feeling his throbbing jaw. “So that means…”

If there was something he was thankful for, it would be being seated in the open, facing many people all at once and having his closest companion surrounding him—because otherwise he would gladly truly jump out of his seat to finish off what he started. From the corner of his eyes, he caught her gasping for the second time. Her demeanor changed so abruptly that it was as if the fire he saw prior was quickly vanquished from her eyes; replaced by sudden chill which made her face slightly pale. He only frowned even deeper when she spared a look at him for the last time before disappearing like the wind, perhaps hopping somewhere… somewhere… safe that the knight and courtier from prior approached his table—no, Duke Eldigan’s seat to be precise.

That very moment, doubt attacked him even more, overwhelming his conscience stronger, stronger than prior. Suddenly he had even more questions to ask. Suddenly he was not sure whether his father would be the right person to come to for everything in his mind, because somehow a part of him wished that he would not have to.

… This was strange indeed. Prior to this the Lionheart was his world, his everything, the mountain to conquer just like how Lady Lachesis would say—he set the standard, and all men fell short in comparison. Even if Duke Eldigan had his flaws, they were not supposed to be… overwhelming. At least not at this level, so much that he found himself being swallowed alive by doubts. He expected his twenty-first birthday to be… grander, in the sense that he would truly feel like a man on his own rather than just being the Lionheart’s cub. There was that, for sure—the little test his own father made him do, and now the Mystletainn by his waist as his new companion to replace the sturdy Toledo sword he had prior. There was his heir appointment ceremony too, which saw him coming out of the throne room with new title and discussion of forming his own regiment and increasing his allowance from the state.

Did those things make him happy? He would not lie by saying no—they did. Usually he only marched behind the Lionheart, becoming his own father’s second-in-command since all his trips and marches were technically still counted as part of his education to become a warrior. Now that Mystletainn was in his possession that he was formally enthroned as the heir, everything marked its completion; even though he still did not hold that much of power compared to the Lionheart’s which transcended all over the lands where Nordion flags flew.

And now—sitting here, under all the comfort and privilege of his position and wealth, of his familial bloodline, where he was supposed to feel good and entertained for the little heart-warming surprise his parents planned for him, for all those smiling faces of nobles and peasants alike—including sharp folks in their magnificent garbs—there was that part of his mind which he still could not put to rest.

… He stopped delving in his thoughts. He just realized that the fire rabbit was no longer before him, yet his eyes were still fixed on where she stood just a moment prior. Tilting his head back to eye the seating section where his parents were, he could see the similar confused look and eyebrow-twitching on Duke Eldigan’s face now that the courtier he lashed at in the kitchen had taken the knight he knocked down to speak to the Nordion sovereign.

His father spared a glance at him, and he could not deny the sad look on the duchess’ face—including the subtle discontentment she hammered him with; something familiar, too familiar perhaps. That look took him back to his younger years, where his mother would sadly shake her head each time he returned to the sovereign’s private compartments with scraped knees, bruises, and sometimes bloody chapped lips.

“What now, Ares?” she would sigh, but signaling a maidservant to bring out the remedies, regardless.

He would mention the reasons to her—there was always this person he encountered at the market who cheated on old seller, he said; then there was always lyceum boys who made fun of noblewomen, he confessed; then when they gathered around a street dancer who had put her simple wooden bowl at her feet in exchange for a few sols to buy bread, those teenage boys whistled and made degrading comments while the dancer hurriedly fixed her cloak to cover herself.

“And you did… what?” the duchess waited.

“I told them to stop. They did not listen,” he had answered simply. “So I kicked them in the chest.”

The duchess _stared_ at him.

“All talk without strength, Mama,” at that time, Lord Ares, with significant military endeavors at sixteen and barely returned from Silvail after winning annual Agustrian martial Olympics, fumed incessantly. “Perhaps that is why they never picked on someone their age and size.”

“But Ares,” the duchess sighed exasperatedly. “Would you—would you look at yourself in the mirror, my cub? There are bruises and scratches like this—your father hardly minded when people did not recognize him, but it is during times like this that I wish they would—at least to you!”

“Well, it was six against one, Mama,” he simply shrugged. “And this may just sting overnight, but with a good warm bath and your healing kiss, I’ll be alright.”

“Flatterer,” the duchess sighed again, softly slapped his son’s face with the clean rag the maidservant had brought to clean his injuries. “Ares, I’m saying—you are my only son, the true heir of this land,” her voice croaked a little. “So mind yourself a little bit more… act with restraint, please?”

“They could have used your advice, Mama,” he remarked sourly.

“I know, my cub. But what mother doesn’t feel heartbroken upon seeing her son returning home like this?” the duchess pointed at her son’s torso the moment the maidservant undressed him to apply the herbs and ointment. “Look, you are bleeding.”

“Next time I won’t be, dear Mama—they will.”

“Next time, Ares?!”

At that time, he left the room after darting a quick kiss on his mother’s hand, which looked like ready to slap him with the rag again. He ran out of the room with unlaced blouse and his overdress being unbuttoned saved for a couple of bandage roll around his torso. He could hear his mother’s another exasperated sigh, feeling half guilty knowing well that his frail mother could barely even run and that he would be far somewhere-whocares by the time she decided to give a chase.

That very night Duke Eldigan sat him through a lecture—something about behaving like a proper knight, a proper lord, he said; something about employing prudence and not acting in blind rage because a person of lordly caliber had to be just, wise, and was not easily provoked. And definitely, a chivalrous knight would not put his mother on distress.

At that time he had few questions—like whether it was even chivalrous to lie to one’s mother about the predicament one was in. Like why he had to sit through all these things as if he purposefully went out for fresh blood, as if he acted in a whim a teenager typically would. And even if he did, he wondered why the duke did not say anything about those lyceum boys who started trouble in the first place. They could have left the street dancer alone if they did not want to watch her or sparing some coins for her. He knew them—lyceum boys usually came _at least_ from relatively well-off middle-class families, so a few sols should not be a problem… right? Or perhaps—perhaps if they were just _that_ stingy, thirty deniers would do. He recalled one of the things they threw at the dancer—something about how shameless she was, selling herself at the street like that considering she was no longer young, and she had been so ballsy for keeping her dancing costume like that. Elaborate and rich in design, they called the veteran dancer shameless, if not akin to a woman who did not understand that her glory had long gone past.

Between Duke Eldigan’s words coming into his ears, he recalled the first line he threw at those lyceum boys— _You are the one without shame,_ at that time he bellowed; _Because had she dressed in anything but, you would be the first to run that insolent mouth too._

“Who are you?” they asked.

Lord Ares of Nordion, at sixteen and exhausted from the journey from Silvail—fresh out of the garrison from winning martial contests, merely blinked and smirked. “Does it matter? I’ll knock you down so hard you won’t be able to remember my name even if I tell you!”

Six against one, with the lion cub getting shoved, punched, and kicked. But at the same time, six against one also saw the lion cub being twice, thrice fiercer that those lyceum boys withdrew after cussing him with many things—like wishing his mother die out of leper, saying how he had to be a bastard child because of how brazen he was. At that time, with voice loud and clear like a roaring lion, he shouted back. “I’m a bastard child? Then what are you, adopted out of trash bins because this is how you act?!”

The street dancer thanked him profusely with watery eyes, akin to a canal which was close to breaking. But she also bit her lips hard, and the lion cub treated her with the dignity she asked—he did not point out that she was crying; instead merely handing his handkerchief to her.

“Use it as you see fit, Madam,” he said simply. When the dancer contemplated on his handkerchief, he did not waste more time to shove five francs into her hands. “Please get yourself a warm meal.”

The dancer murmured gratitude, but he caught something those trembling lips said. “… I’m ashamed.”

And at that time, it penetrated deep into his heart, but she was gone when he concluded he might want to talk a little bit more to her. About what, he honestly did not know—he just wanted to fear more. He fought before her very eyes, calling the lyceum boys shameless. Yet after everything, even with the best he could muster and him practically putting a hundred sols into her hands like that, she was ashamed.

Lord Ares of Nordion, at sixteen, began questioning whether a broken heart would feel like this—technically he was not even in love with her, but what he just experienced felt so soul-crushing. It should not be, as he tried to convince himself; after all he was not even in love with her, and he thought he stood up for what was right. Yet Duke Eldigan kept talking about propriety—

“Lord Papa, I—“

_I have questions._

He did not say anything but a mere good night.

And something about this peasant girl bugged him, the way the cloaked street dancer from his sixteen year old self managed to instill doubts. It was hard to ignore anymore—it was almost like the ladies he encountered at some point in his life did that. The withdrawing act, the meek voice, the change in their demeanors which spoke of… exhaustion. That careful manner they put up as if they knew that had they been anything but, the consequences would be bad. That simple displeasure would cost them something, and their delight, even if it was tame and docile, might still earn a scorn.

He recalled the cloaked dancer who looked so exhausted that she retorted to being passive instead. And hell—even Altena, Princess Altena of Leonster!—the firstborn in her lineage, sounded so exhausted that as if she wished to take everything to sleep and for everything to sort themselves out while she was asleep. Why would she insist getting them more mead when servants were merely a wave away?

Then the peasant girl with ruined sandwiches he just saved. She looked so appalled, so, so appalled that for a moment he had no doubt that she would truly smack him in the face given the chance. But the moment the knight and courtier met with Duke Eldigan, her fierceness fell and she chose to flee.

Like the ladies he encountered in life so far. The way the street dancer fixed her cloak and simply disappeared after a small act of kindness. The way his own mother silently cared for him during those hard training days he had with the Lionheart—the way she would always put something extra in silence; be it home-cooked meal instead of raw-something the Lionheart told him to pack to mirror the knights, the scarf she sewed for him, those flashy robes he hated but were actually warm and durable.

He recalled the look on the duchess’ eyes when he came home needing patched—first after the dancer incident, then the market incident—there was _fear,_ fear even though she as the mother should have known that he was more than capable to protect himself in a fight. And just like that street dancer, the day he received Mystletainn the duchess held back everything—hell, now that he began to _think_ , perhaps he should just hug her and let her cry on him. After all, she was his mother…

“Ares?”

“I, uh…” he found himself tongue-tied. He usually never, because his silence was often a voluntary one. “I need something,” he muttered simply to a frowning Leif while Altena’s gaze was still fixated on a solitude table—not that far from other party attendants, but definitely far from where Duke Eldigan and his friends were seated. That had to be King Travant and Prince Arion, he judged. Whatever it was at stake between Princess Altena and Prince Arion, admittedly it started dawning on him as well—Travant and Arion’s table was rather desolate, with Duke Arvis and his Velthomer family being the closest reachable companion from such proximity. The flashy figure he saw chatting up Duke Arvis was gone for all he cared, but…

He looked at his own father and his group of friends there—so merry, so lively, while the younger generation was plagued with anxiety and questions they did not really dare to indulge in—him included. How did it feel again, being either Travant or Arvis, isolated-but-not-isolated, having to watch the merry lordly crowd the way a beggar looked into a tavern?

He felt his head burning. He should not care. After all, to hell with politics—at least for now. But all his life he heard these often—knighthood, chivalry, the importance of prudence and whatnot; that kind of utmost loyalty if not servitude one gave to the liege and his friends—

His father was a peerless knight and never failed his mother so far—or so he hoped. But then again his father was…

… His head truly was burning now—his father was a human too. The Lionheart was _leonine_ , yes; but in the end of the day, it was still the same person who seated him in his lap when he was six—close to seven—with his rich idea of money-betting and the discourse pertaining what 250 franc could buy. The same person who made it clear to him as well— _I am very much human, my child._

… That was the thing. The Lionheart was a person— _just_ a person, like him. Like that cloaked street dancer he encountered on the way home from Silvail. Like the fiery rabbit that was the peasant girl from prior, who now disappeared after giving him a shocking entrance; like lightning—bright but dispersing so soon that it almost like a fleeting dream leaving the sky spotless.

And this time he wanted to find her. His own grasp of what was what started to crumble—piece by piece, and somehow he had this sudden insatiable urge to find more, to hear more of everything with his own eyes instead of the rose-tinted glass shrouding his person as the Lionheart’s cub.

He leaped off the seat, surprising Earl Seliph and Prince Leif who were still eating. Meanwhile the lion cub’s plate was nearly untouched, but the black napkin there was gone the moment the birthday lord decided to pursue his target.

“Ares!” Seliph and Leif called on him, and he glanced back, with the kind of mixed expression that his counterparts never even expected to see on him. The marquis kicked his heels off the chair, yet he looked rather uncertain judging from the way he paused in the middle of the crowd, looking… confused. Upon hearing his name being called, Marquis Ares simply glanced back at them before turning away.

To be honest, Marquis Ares of Nordion barely even cared what his friends tried telling him. Sure he heard his name being called, but he decided they did not need his explanation …. Perhaps some things indeed did not need an explanation, reflecting back on his own unanswered questions and things he could not even tell his own father about.

Was he… having doubts?

That thought poked him harsher than he ever imagined. Doubt? But about what? The Lionheart was still peerless as always, a model knight of many. Did he have doubts, or was he simply frustrated thinking he could not reach his father’s standard and would only end up disappointing everyone?

Ares sailed table after table, surprising noble guests and commoners alike. Those who did not recognize him simply spared a polite nod the way a peasant acknowledged an upper-class person, while those who did quickly dropped into curtsies. He could see commoners hesitated to touch everything served on the table when he approached instead of feeling encouraged.

He quickly removed himself from them, sparing a stiff greeting that they should not hesitate because after all the foods were there, and foods were cooked to be consumed with their own taxes contributing to Nordion’s treasury. He lacked the graceful suaveness his duchess mother had when it came to handling people, or that humble calmness which commanded respect the Lionheart possessed. He did not easily smile the way Earl Seliph serenely empathized with people, nor did he possess the cheerful bearing or caring approach like his cousins Diarmuid and Nanna had. Regardless, his well-intended gesture surprised people, and he said grace in silence when half of them were too stunned to react while the other did not waste time to get the food as if his clear approval was everything they needed.

Meanwhile his footsteps brought him even further from the royal seating. Musicians began to finish their lunches while string players slowly adjusted their instruments. He did not have a chance to check if there would be a hired soloist there as well, and strangely enough none of that mattered to him right now. If anything, there was this little part in his chest which felt… bitter. Like he was aware he was supposed to be grateful that his parents decided to hold a folk party for him, while the other part was… sullen. He should have known, he thought; for he was supposed to be the center of this party—was this one not held so his parents could introduce him as the Nordion heir to everyone? Yet that little sullen part was hard to dismiss either; if anything, that part voiced his _resentment_ for being made to attend a party supposedly aimed to celebrate him but without him having a say in it.

He felt so left in the dark, alone and concerned, with even more barging questions. What else did he miss? He really wanted to find the fire rabbit—at least she showed defiance, and despite gasping so loud upon realizing that he was indeed the marquis she had so openly vented, her surprise was more about him turning out to be that very person she grilled rather than _regretting_ the opinion she had of him.

… Or of the marquis. He was Ares, he would gladly say—but alas, he was also the marquis. His father was kind and compassionate, but at the same time Duke Eldigan was also the Lionheart, and this lion would not stop his hunt once he flashed his fang that was Mystletainn at his decided opponents.

He did not find the fire rabbit still, but separating further from the royal seating brought him to the tables occupied by King Travant, Prince Arion, and a few of the courtiers they brought along. Duke Arvis was no longer there; neither did the twin lordlings who were his children or that flashy figure he accused of ogling ladies with Diarmuid. Perhaps the duke and his family had mingled somewhere else or even left their seats to meet up with his parents. And that flashy nobleman—who cared anyway.

He caught Prince Arion’s eyes when the latter stood, looking a bit displeased realizing how far their seat from everyone else was. “You—“ the Thracian prince exchanged glances at him, and there was sheer awkwardness looming between them until Arion cleared his throat, nodding. “I congratulate you on your happy day and ascension as the heir.”

Travant tilted his head at him. There was something akin to a contained ring of fire emanating from his eyes, but he stood to follow his son, anyway, and he spared a bow, because he was still a king and his son a prince while his father was merely a duke. “Your Majesty, the King of Thracia.”

“Am I?”

He could feel it—his cheeks felt hot and flared, understanding what Travant implied. And oddly, he could actually understand—Travant was king, whether Prince Quan liked it or not, whether his father refused to acknowledge it out of solidarity with the Leonsterian crown prince or not. He decided not to answer, but merely clicking his fingers to stop a waiter. Maintaining his deadpan expression he took two goblets from the tray said waiter carried and handed one to the Thracian king.

“Let me pay my overdue respect.”

“Gracious host, aren’t you?” the king sneered, taking the goblet regardless. He simply paused, waiting for the king to take the drink. Only after he did that he followed suit. “… That was… awesome.”

That sounded so sincere, like even Travant himself was taken off guard for saying that. And somehow that brought him a little mischievous delight within. “Thank you. My father is a great wine connoisseur, and Nordion is proud to have him directly selecting this for us.”

“Well, sounds like a nice man. Too bad that he…” Travant glanced at the royal seating again, watching Duke Eldigan talked and chatted with Prince Quan. “… Whatever, I guess. I’d hate to ruin a green grass.”

_Green?_

“Father,” Prince Arion muttered. “I thank you as well, Marquis Ares.”

There was that tight feeling in the marquis lion cub’s chest upon hearing Travant’s words, and much to his own surprise, that one bothered him more than Travant’s rather cynical demeanor toward Duke Eldigan’s friendship with Prince Quan. Green? Like—like inexperienced and not knowing anything? “I thank you for coming, Prince Arion,” he replied formally, trying to quench that bothersome feeling looming in his chest. “And I for one isn’t the only one glad you made it here.”

“I heard you are a frank man, Marquis,” the prince responded. “It’s alright. There’s no need for flattery.”

“Princess Altena of Leonster is what I’m thinking,” he mustered a small smile, tipping his hat at Arion who gave him a stunned, stunned blank look. And with Arion busying himself to recover from the sudden realization that at least Altena _wanted_ his presence, the Nordion marquis journeyed again.

Nope. He had circumvented the square two times, evading the royal seating even more each time he made a turn. Miss Fire Rabbit could not possibly be near the royal seating—she took her flight so soon, and he found himself being made to feel like a fairytale protagonist like a prince who lost his pauper.

He scoffed at an instant. First, he did not read those books. Second, who cares what a fairy had to say?

The marquis sipped some lemonade, tracing back the stands where she previously was. The sugary freshness attacked his senses, and somehow his mind was back to the peasant girl from prior again—she had drunk the lemonade like a stranded traveler at a desert. He had never paid close attention to the northern outskirts in the sense that he hardly bothered to shop at all to care more.

… And now he wondered what actually it was like to travel to the northern outskirts…

His mind began racing as he took a quick sip of the lemonade. The girl from prior would have wanted to evade castle guards. And she did not seem to be the kind of person who had a favoring opinion of the nobility, either, so tough luck that she would be there with the guests. If his courtiers had everything sorted, perhaps she got paid as well. Would it be too late to catch a glimpse of her before her departure? The castle town was heavily guarded, anyway—she could not be sneaking out so easily. And pretty sure the guards who cornered her from prior would have recognized her. So…

… So she took him to seek refuge— _her_ refuge—after he punched the soldier.

Suddenly Marquis Ares had that typical faint smile again. The corner of his mouth made another twitch, forming a pleasant small smile with gentle tone underneath… somehow. Knowing he would find what he was looking for this time, he headed to a certain direction, near the square gate. Musicians had finished adjusting their instruments or lunches that they began playing, serenading the crowd with joyful melodies suitable for the mood and the younger crowd.

The marquis directed his legs to trace the bushes near the square gate, walking in such a way to make his footsteps soundless. One normal step with his left leg was followed by his right one, L-shaped that it was to even out the burden and anticipating wild branches. When the tallest grass from the lushest swath came into his vision, he knew his search would meet its end. With a gentle tug he grabbed a handful of the grass, parting the bush just enough for him to slide through.

And there he found her indeed. The fire rabbit was sitting on the grass, surrounded by tall weeds. Her legs were gracefully bent by her side, and she had her back arched while her head was kept low. Her body language did not escape him either; the fire rabbit had curled as if making herself as invisible and undetected as possible.

“… Hello?” he murmured, not sure how to approach. The girl was defiant and angry a moment ago, but now her body language had spoken the opposite of fiery. Cautiously he took a step forward, waiting.

The girl gasped—again. Her eyes widened upon noticing his arrival, and she quickly scooted around. “Marquis—my lord!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he gestured at her, awkwardly. “Can I sit here?”

“And if I refuse?” she fidgeted with her long dress. “… You have questions. Your face says so.”

Marquis Ares paused. She shot him point-blank—again—just like what she did on their first encounter. And he wished he could decide whether he was supposed to be impressed or disturbed even more because she just did that. “… Does it?”

“Um. Yes? I mean—at the very least, why aren’t you there with the lords?” she asked.

“… I need to find you,” he replied truthfully. “And yes, I have questions. Can I sit here, or can I not?”

She took turn pausing, contemplating him. Really? Did the marquis speak the truth? And he just said it like that—needing to find her? But what for? Why? Oh—could it be… “Um—Marquis Ares, my lord?”

Again, the marquis found himself unable to resist making that little twitch again. His lips curved now that somehow he felt a bit tickled by the way she addressed him. It was as if she tested his name and title in her mouth, with a hint of cautious curiosity in between. “I am,” he gave a simple nod.

“N-no, I’ll stand up,” she quickly added when he approached closer.

“Alright?”

She shot him a confused look when he extended his hand at her. “For me?”

“Yeah?” now that she gave him such a look, _he_ was confused too.

Dumbfounded, she took his hand. And her face fell into flaring deep crimson shade when something conveniently fell onto the grass, falling from her failing clasped hands since she took the marquis’ hand. She wondered what needed to be done first—bludgeoning the marquis so hard that he forgot he saw anything, or herself first because… because she would not feel this ashamed when she was unconscious.

“There was something—“ the marquis arched down to pick up what just fell.

“Nooo!” she swatted his hands away, gasping when such sudden movement threw her backwards. She clutched on his robe to find something to hang on to, and he conveniently pulled her back to her feet while the something landed on his feet. “Uh…”

The marquis simply picked up what just fell, and his expression shifted. “Your lunch.”

“… It was,” she mumbled sheepishly. “It is alright, my lord. I’ve eaten some, I…”

“Why didn’t you eat with everyone else?” he inquired.

“Why would I?”

The marquis sensed the change in her demeanor, finding that the fire-breathing rabbit inside of her slowly returned. Was she simply shocked to find that he was indeed the marquis, or… “Because what is served there is meant for everyone to eat?” he argued, waiting for her response.

“Liar.”

Indeed, his fire-breathing rabbit was back. “And how come?”

“How come, you said? Then how come nobody said anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” she spat. “Even if this is your party…”

That somehow struck him like thunder. Green, being kept in the dark. His party—supposedly so, but it hardly ever felt like that. “And where are you going?”

“Home. I’m done here,” she responded in such exhausted tone. “If you excuse me—my lord.”

“Hold on.”

“Nordion castle paid me. You are right,” she stated simply. “Therefore—“ she curtsied.

“How did you come here from the northern outskirts?”

“… Hiring a carriage?” she spared him another confused look, but her tone was still that of a frustrated one. “But it took a while to find one because everyone was heading here. With the props and everything, I could hardly get inside—a mass carriage I mean, my lord.”

“Now I _know_ that,” he sighed. “I’m not that unaware.”

“Considering you looked so star-struck when I fixed your hat’s feather,” she blurted. “I mean—!”

He looked at her.

“Don’t you have people fixing things for you?!”

“… Hmmm,” he looked at her—again.

“Oh, good. First I called you dumb, then I wasn’t aware you were the marquis people talked about. And then…”

“And then you called me handsome as well,” he deadpanned.

“Y-you!”

“… Right?”

She let out a long, long sigh, darting her palm over her face. “I’d want to donate a mirror, but like, you are much richer. Besides, living as a royal like that, don’t you look into your own mirror?”

“No?”

“N-no?”

“No? Why would I?”

“R-really?”

“Yeah? It’s my body, how come I do not know my own body? I can dress in the dark just fine.”

“Do you talk like this daily or… oh, God,” she sighed, exasperated. “Or is this your way to make me comply? Say it—you found me because your guards wanted me captured, isn’t it? Uh—my lord.”

“Comply?” he frowned even deeper, yet the way she added the honorific after being so frustrated by him tickled him again. And what was this again—capturing her? “Miss Seamstress,” he took a step closer. “I have no idea what is this capturing matter you spoke of. But if my guards were to approach you in the same manner like what I witnessed when I met you, they would meet my fists again.”

She stopped fidgeting. Did he speak truly? Did he just state that he would gladly fight his own men if it meant to keep her out of harm’s way? “Uh,” she scratched her head. This was confusing. This marquis was confusing. She still had the urge to smack his face, of course, but at the same time he also gave her the impression of… sincerity. And she would have thought sincerity would be the last thing coming from privileged men like him. The marquis might be an oddball in his own way, but somehow his unhesitant approach, his sincerity… if only it was easy to admit that he did not strike her as a bad person indeed. But she could not risk anything, because—because even if the royals or these privileged men she contemplated just now were not a bad person, money and social status made a huge difference, and those she encountered so far were often times sly even if not necessarily maliciously evil.

He still waited. And he did not cut her words. Strangely there was some kind of small comfort, in the way he treated her; perhaps that alone proved that this truly was the Lionheart’s cub—courteous. And oh, Lord—her cheeks just had to flare in crimson again there, didn’t they, now that she remembered she had called him a lion cub to mess with him, only to have him simply affirmed that yes, even his own parents called him that. … And then she said his parents were weird, and his parents turned out to be the very own Nordion’s sovereign pair.

“… I guess I said brazen things to your guards, my lord,” she squeaked a little. This was exhausting. Perhaps it was better to just give up already. Would that finally make the marquis leave her be?

“I did not come here to hear that, Miss.”

“And then—then why?” she tilted her chin, begrudgingly looking at him. The lion cub was indeed tall, darn it, and just her luck because she tripped when wanting to get a better look of him.

And just like prior, he simply caught her. His arm unhesitatingly encircled her waist to keep her steady, and just like prior as well he quickly released his hold of her the moment she was back on her feet. She looked at him again—there was no trace of mockery on his person, let alone… that kind of specific gaze those privileged men planted on her. That suffocating uncomfortable feeling she would have, which prompted her wanting to just… leave.

_Like with him._

She swallowed.

“Seems I’m not the only one with questions,” he said. “Why don’t you come out so we can talk?”

“Talk?”

“And then you can eat,” he casually motioned his hand to point out at the something-from-prior which fell onto his feet. Right—her lunch. Her simple sandwich lunches which already changed form when those guards inspected her.

“No, thank you,” she scoffed again. “You seem nice, but I wouldn’t be here if I wanted mingling.”

“That is another thing I’d like to know as well,” he responded. “Would you?”

“Why this sudden—my lord?”

“You said I knew nothing. I would want to know something,” he spared a faint smile. “Judging from how sharp you are, I know you will not sugarcoat, Miss.”

“I’ve never heard an insult like that,” she mumbled.

“Perhaps because I did not mean any,” he tugged on the grass so she could pass through conveniently.

“You are a strange lion,” she murmured, but stepping outside regardless. The music was only getting to be merrier and joyful, perhaps because the musicians and party attendees alike felt refreshed after eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. “I don’t feel like being there,” she stated bluntly, eyeing the royal seating as well as the separate group consisting of nobles, rich and privileged folks who occupied tables close to where the musician group had settled to serenade the party.

“Frankly, neither do I.”

The marquis’ blunt, instant response silenced her for a moment. “… You don’t?”

But he had that firm look again on his face—just akin to the expression he wore when he chastised his own guards before punching one of them. “No.”

“Perhaps you should not do that because there is no need.”

“What about, Miss—joining other royals?”

“No, my lord—starting your sentences with ‘frankly…’ because you already are. Redundant.”

He hid a wider grin from her. “That can warn those who don’t speak the same language beforehand.”

“Was that a warning to me, then?” she pursued. She wondered if she had sounded too deliberate with him, but… but then again she didn't hesitate to begin with. It did not even matter that it was due to her not recognizing him as the Nordion marquis—he already looked like one of those upper-class person, anyway, which should have earned her restrained manner in the first place. Yet there was not, even until _now,_ he did not make any complaint about it. And somehow that was… comforting.

“I just did not want to shock you even more,” he replied in a simple manner.

“I don’t think I couldn’t be shocked more than finding out you are the marquis.”

“Is that so?” he simply curved his lips one more time. “Tell me—did you _really_ get paid?”

“Yes,” she replied earnestly. “And frankly, I suspect it was your doing.”

“Frankly?”

“Well,” she smiled sheepishly. “I—I guess now we speak the same language, my lord.”

“Redundant, judging from our first meeting,” he returned her line casually. “Truly no name then?”

“… Name? N-name?”

“Your name, Miss?”

“You already called me a rabbit.”

“And I thought you begrudged me?”

“You called me Miss Seamstress, so it’s fine—I addressed you with your title, anyway!”

“And that, you think, makes me begrudge you?”

“I can’t bet on that, my lord, but it seems to me you don’t really fancy it, either,” she shot back.

“How is a seamstress comparable as a lordship as a way to address another?” he was tempted to take on her, somehow. He did not recall the last time feeling so competitive like this—and competitive in the battle of wits, anyway—something he was truly aware that he had no mastery upon, compared to the aspects of warfare he diligently trained for. After all, Ares and eloquence were never a matching pair. If they were, his mother would not have to sigh and exhale multiple times before lecturing him about how worried she was considering her cub did not invite himself to any fight—but would not decline an invitation when being treated to one. Back then he made it clear to the duchess that even if he fought again, he would not be the one coming home in bandages. Now that it was proven true, the duchess still sighed and exhaled exasperatedly—now with the bonus of earlobe-pinching, which he gravely miscalculated thinking she only reserved it for the Lionheart.

Strangely enough, he had this urge to talk to the fire rabbit, but that competitive feeling he felt the moment he entered a training ground, an arena, or whatever it was—simply disappeared.

“Easy,” she huffed. “Some blond dandy from prior told me the marquis wasn’t so keen on finesse.”

“Oh,” if he was to be honest right away, it was hard, not to laugh right away. “That dandy is right.”

“Of cooourse,” she rolled her eyes at him. “What are your other questions?”

“How is a seamstress comparable to a lordship?” he repeated in a casual manner, making her curve her lips, surprised. “If that was an easy answer, I’d hope to get a different answer.”

“Same question isn’t really entitled to a different answer, my lord,” she shook her head, purposefully behaving like she just talked to a _child_ instead of a royalty.

“My apologies. Then how is a lordship comparable to a seamstress?”

She paused. He merely cocked an eyebrow. Huffing even sourer, she sighed. “… Stubborn lordling!”

“I’d say thorough.”

“Thoroughly stubborn dandy!”

“Just for today, Miss—can’t a man make his dear mother happy?”

“Stubbornly thorough lion!”

“Lion _cub_ —that one is my father!”

“Hnnn. Why are people with nice hair so undefeatable? Yield.”

“What a coincidence. You first, please?”

“… What?” she _stared_ at him.

“What?” he looked back.

“Uh,” she reflexively touched her braid. Did the marquis just—oh, but if it was the case, then she would not give in. He might be different compared to the other doofuses she came across so far, but if he tried to pull a silver tongue at her, he should start praying, because if she had to learn that she was the marquis she called dumb, he would have to learn her _manslaying_ wit. And that moment, she would prove that he was indeed, dumb. “… You demand people to yield by _asking_ them nicely like that?”

“I do ask,” there is a shimmering twinkle in his eyes as he spoke. “But they always ignored me.”

“If it was your murderous biceps talking, my lord,” she sighed.

“Should they yield then, if they were the ones talking?” he responded. “I didn’t invite myself in.”

She paused again. That might be true—even if people exaggerated his martial exploits, at least seeing him today proved a couple of pointers if anything--first thing first he did appear rather awkward in his garb. He did not even notice the feather on his hat was askew; so that should prove that… supposedly, he wasn’t used to dress like that. What did he usually wear, then—leaving his head undecorated, or was he too used to donning a knight’s helmet that now that he got to dress up fancily a little bit, he behaved like he was close to crawl out of his own skin. People said he did not really fancy finesse, anyway, so… first pointer proven to be right? A royal was still a royal, but seeing how quick his feet left his royal seating to compensate the workers. Even if he did that exactly because she shoved everything at his face, then… the very least she could credit him with would be willingness to listen.

… Perhaps Marquis Ares was not that bad. And even if he was dumb, he was eager to figure things out.

Dumb—allegedly so. And now thinking of this word alone made her wince. Did karma bite her back? Regardless of what was what, out of the varying adjectives they used to describe the marquis, a brutal savage never surfaced. If his manner did not lie as well, he treated her better like many of his own peerage did. He treated her… humanely.

“You have that title, my lord,” she reasoned. “No matter how dumb you are, that comes first.”

He paused a little bit. Truthfully, her calling him dumb only piqued his curiosity even more. He would be lying if he was asked whether he took it peacefully—truly he did not; if anything it only fueled his own questions and self-doubts about the things he thought to be… true. And as much as he learned that even his fellow royals were at their own crossroads, meeting her only loudened all those inner questions he harbored, including the unresolved ones from his younger years as he became more aware. And just like he told her prior—he was not completely unaware. The thing was, to be aware he had to know something, and alas, apparently most of the time he did not know anything.

And by the grace of God, the rabbit possessed a flame-tongue. If only he did not call Altena dragon princess first, he would be gladly nicknaming her that. Was his spirit baptized in fire as well? No, really—was her mother a _dragon_ or something? Suddenly he had this wild idea that Aunt Lachesis might be interested in this girl. If she was a seamstress, would not that be smart to have her working for his aunt? Lady Lachesis, wife of Knight Commander Finn in service to the crown of Leonster, earned her fortune not just by her share of Nordion wealth alone—she traded fabrics and fine garments, with her caravans reaching many important hubs all around Jugdral. This girl could not even have proper sandwiches.

“… Then what follows seamstress, Miss?”

She paused again. He wondered if he had crossed a line by asking for her name there. He had subtly worded it to her that addressing by her name— _any_ name—would make the conversation flew more conveniently, and yet now she pondered like he just asked her the secret of life. True that she was a a Nordion citizen—well, considering she said she hailed from northern _Nordion_ outskirts, alright, instead of saying _southern Grannvale_ since the area she mentioned was close to the Agustrian-Grannvalian borders—and a commoner too at that, but…

… But she was a lady still.

At home it was mostly the duchess and him, because his younger years saw how busy the Lionheart was with all the state affairs and formulating an effective defense force white print for the Agustrian king—Imka the Benevolent. The duchess bore his absence with grace and fortitude—the Lionheart would leave Nordion for many, many days—altering his presence between Silvail and Agusty, and then camped at the northern shores with the army to anticipate Orgahill pirate raids. He had seen how some of his father’s courtiers looked down on the duchess, who was just a minor noblewoman with insignificant title hailing from Manster District. He had seen the duchess kept up a happy face even when her heart did not agree, never really asked for things out of understanding too well that her lineage was not as impressive as the Lionheart’s.

Perhaps that explained why Duke Eldigan loved bringing back pretty things for his wife. Perhaps that explained why Duke Eldigan often answered with a kiss when she asked how much he spent for the regal silk bolts he had obtained from Lachesis’ trading network. Perhaps that explained why the more the duchess said the Lionheart’s safe return would make the best gift for her, Duke Eldigan would still come home with a thing or _five_ he bought for her.

But those nights—those nights when he felt feverish, when he thought the lightning was too bright and thunderstorm was too loud; those nights when he had a nightmare of losing a fight against a beast; those nights when he felt sad because no child _in_ the castle wanted to play with him—those nights saw not the Lionheart cradling him in a warm protective embrace and soft bed. It was always his mother, Duchess Grahnye of Nordion, who would gently stroke his hair as she wrapped her arms around him. The woman who also went vigil when his fever did not break until past midnight. The frail woman who would tire easily but always, always had something encouraging to say each time he trained in warfare.

… His father did not tell him to treat ladies with respect. He always tried, and sincerely, he wanted to. It mattered a little whether it was his own mother or the cloaked street dancer he encountered on the way from Silvail—speaking of which, he thought of catching a glimpse of her again, this time begging near the castle gate. He put money in her bowl, regretting that he truly, truly forgot to threaten his guards not to be cruel to beggars and homeless people. Her words revisited his mind again—she said even if she came with the intention to beg, chances were his guards would not take it so kindly.

… Oh boy, again, he felt like he could do so little, even with his position like this. And yet, in the midst of these doubts why was it that her words brought new perspectives he thought he would never reach?

She looked at him again. What appeared to be certain and confident began to fade away. For a moment she tilted her head, and he waited until her answer came out. “… A wench, my lord.”

He looked at her. And she spared him a wry smile. “Pardon—but why?”

“Don’t Your Lordship already know?” she snarled. “The thing milord conveyed to the guard prior?”

He _stared._

“My lord?”

“I said you are a lady,” he replied bluntly.

“Exactly!”

He contemplated her answer.

“Well, if that will be all, Marquis Ares,” she muttered simply. “This one’s better, I heard harlot often.”

“What?”

“Yes? And things like common tart, witch and—“

“Ridiculous, men I know have or had liaisons like that and yet—”

“And yet,” her index finger quickly reigned on his lips, silencing him. Realizing what she just did, she quickly withdrew, cheeks blushing red now that her demeanor turned awkward. “… If you excuse me.”

“Can’t I get a name?”

“Well,” she scratched her nose. “You called me miss. That made you only half dumb, I guess.”

“Hmmm. A progress,” he was tempted to bite back. “So that means a no?”

“Uh…”

“No?” he asked again, gentler and more respectful.

“What for, though?”

“To call you _even more_ properly?”

“And—and what for, my lord?”

“I said I have _questions,_ Miss—plural.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

“I can address you like this just fine if you choose to keep that private,” he nodded. “So, there are things I’d like to hear directly from you…”

“Hold on,” she cut in. “You will just—withdraw?”

“Yes?”

“Even though I said no?”

“… Yes? Why would I force?”

“You are—I mean, you would not?”

“Certainly? Why are we having this conversation again?”

“W-well! I address you well and everything!”

“And I thank you?”

“You what?”

“And you did not call me Ares either. Aren’t we even?”

“… You have _no_ qualm with people conveniently calling your name like that?”

“If the person is not malicious, why not?”

“Y-you…”

“Hmmm?”

She really, really stared at him.

She expected the alleged _dumb_ Sir Blond Dandy to be just it—dumb and dandy like many other privileged folks out there, or at least here, at the party. But Marquis Ares really destroyed all the arguments or that manslaying wit she always kept ready in her mind, and—

… And then she realized it was because she did not need it. There was no need to be so guarded and alert because he was courteous and sincere, and…

And she called him handsome, but that was another, and besides the point.

She could hear people’s chatter and laughter as musicians kept playing. Her mind traveled somewhere else for a moment, recalling— _him_ —and the situation or predicament she was in. She could see people were divided into groups—with some began making their chiaranzana crowds like prior, and those feeling the love in the air chose a private, couple dance rather than joining those who took folk dances which functioned more as communal fun than intimate. “Your parents danced,” she said. “So…”

“So, are you hopping somewhere else again?”

“I—uh…” she looked at him.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked in a simple frankness.

“As if!” she scoffed. “I fear no man. Not even if he is a lion—not even if he is my liege…”

“I wasn’t questioning your bravery, Miss. I asked if I intimidated you instead.”

“You—pardon—if _you_ made me uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“But—my lord.”

“I need to ask you a few things, yes,” he responded. “But I can do so without distressing you.”

Again, she thought her control slowly slipped off her. Damn the entrance guards then—they said a thing or two about ladies rattling over him, alright—and while she would gladly take herself off that list, there was something… something peculiar, about the marquis, which she could not put into words yet. And it was not necessarily a bad thing. The marquis still spoke with that sincere frankness, and for a moment she thought it was almost… endearing, even if his tone was flat and his expression was straight.

Suddenly she had an idea.

An impish idea, even if she was to say so herself. She should be the one taking control, anyway. After all, handling men and their various… advances was not new to her; if anything, she would dare that there was not any trick she had not seen yet so far, going in and out of those manors as an entertainer. And the marquis got the upper hand at the battle of wits without even trying. Hell, he did not even compete, and yet conversation after conversation somehow she nearly lost her will to outwit him because—because speaking to him turned out to not be bad at all.

… In fact, it was nice. Too nice, even. Like she could count on him not to pull any trick. And…

And so, she grabbed him out of a sudden, taking him away from the cheery, merry crowd. She did not want to be so deliberate—after all, curse everything first and her second if the marquis got the wrong idea that she _wanted_ to throw herself at him. She was not even competing, the way he did not seem to compete to master her—just thinking of it made her shudder already. And she really could not deal with another day bearing another man who thought her wit, courage, or even displeasure was nothing but a playful way to convey that what she truly wanted was being a tease, playing hard to get like a succubus. Well, she would show him that she had no interest on fulfilling men’s idea of being a demure dame who would just nod and smile like a doll. She would regain her composure—and with it, control.

She grabbed him. And he did not even blink. He was just there, waiting.

“I don’t feel like being there,” she stated bluntly. “I don’t want…”

He did not say anything. She hated how easy he won without even realizing it.

“… Nobles… make me uncomfortable, my lord,” she whispered. This was supposed to be easy. Chew him out, grab her wage, and leave. And yet she just offered a moment of honesty with him. “They have power. They have…”

Her mind flashed to a couple of episodes in her life she would rather forget. Those nights, those days—from one thinking she would eventually have everything she had been deprived of; the joyous reunion turning into nightmare until her own flight from… Grannvale. Those hungry days, exhausted days, absent days in return of the little dignity she had left in her, and then…

_Him. And them. And those curious dandies. And the filthy ones. And—_

And the night was dark. And her feet felt so sore and numb she really thought a carriage would hit her because she wondered when her last step would be made, and where. The night where she curled, feeling so sore and exhausted like her life was being slowly drained out of her, like her bones were broken with one of those vicious torture devices cruel lords giddily kept in their castles. Like how she nearly could not rise out of her own bed for days after kind people at the Worker’s Alley helped her.

“I’m a nobleman myself, Miss. Doesn’t that concern you?”

“… You asked,” she murmured. “The rest… hardly.”

“Thank you very much,” he nodded. Again, sincerity could be seen being spelt clearly in his eyes. And he did not stutter. He might be dumb, but he was… aware.

 _Darn,_ she thought, upon realizing she just agreed. The music played, so determined not to delve getting so star-struck exactly because how simple and sincere Marquis Ares was, she took him, taunting him to move with her in a… dance. The marquis only knew her as a seamstress—this too would change. She imagined he would simply let her frolic around, leaving him like a fool, but—

He took her waist.

Gently, respectfully that she noticed he did not even touch her—merely encircling his arm around her. She waited for the rough touch and pull like the many others she was familiar with, but just like the incident with the guards prior, there was none. “Did my courtier say anything about paying everyone else?” he asked, in between of the lulling music, people’s chatters and laughter as well as other couples busily swayed around them.

“Yes,” she replied, making a simple twist. His steps were rather awkward and his moves screamed _I bloody hardly do this like ever,_ yet there he was, not shying away from challenge. His court might teach him, considering… dances and royals were nearly inseparable, anyways—but if anything he tried to keep up with her, and never once he made a comment about that. Her dance partners sometimes fumed like she just personally castrated their dignity just because dancing with her exposed their mediocrity.

But was the marquis sincere too in this one?

“Not much of a dancer, my lord?” she brazenly asked. Daring, blunt, and truthfully— _rude_.

“Me? No. Not at all,” again, the marquis replied in the same deadpan manner and a straight face, making her swallow back because… it was there. The formidability—the _silent, subtle formidability_ he had under his skin. A person who casually admitted his weakness and not bothered by the idea whether it made him less of a man, less masculine in parts where other men excelled…

 _He is strong,_ she thought. And it was not his prowess she had in mind. He was certain of what he could do and what he could not—perhaps this was exactly what drove people into frenzy; like the opponents he defeated as a fellow warrior, or the admirers who showered him with declarations of affection.

And for the first time of the day, she smiled. She truly, truly smiled, so bright and beautiful that it earned a sharp surprised look from the marquis. “You really aren’t what they said you were,” she chuckled.

“Am I?”

“You never paid attention?”

“No? Why would I? Wasting time.”

“I guess this part as well—you don’t care,” she sighed.

“Because it’s not important, anyway,” he shrugged. “And I might be a nobleman, but my lord father is a peerless warrior and knight first—which is how he shaped me.”

“You mean no parties and frivolities,” she remarked so innocently, so much that the corner of his mouth twitched again, forming the pleasant small smile somehow only he could.

“No,” he replied. “I lived more of a Spartan life. Ate what a soldier typically eats.”

It was as if there was something being set ablaze at an instant inside of her chest upon hearing his answer. She slowly looked up, finding yet another nonexistent trace of mockery… snobbery… sarcasm… or whatever it was which indicated that what he said was not actually what he meant. But there was none, and somehow understanding that the marquis was not being sarcastic only made it worse.

“Is something bothering you?” he asked, frowning now that she stopped moving.

Instead of answering, she conveniently stepped on his boot. Her eyes flashed her own equivalence of bloodlust as she pounded the war drum, shooting him the kind of look which shouted an invitation to a duel. She smiled triumphantly upon noticing that he too, halted his steps. She conveniently waited for his reaction, wondering if he would still keep a straight face even after knowing that she determined to _humiliate_ him. If he was careless, he would trip—which sure would cause a scene, even more so when people realized it was the birthday lord himself who tripped. If he did not do anything… well, would the marquis rather be seen as awkward and clueless for keeping his toes immovable on the ground while the rest swayed and swung, or appearing like a fool for—for the lack of better term—being defanged by a girl—a _peasant_ girl?

“Yes,” she looked at him defiantly. “You.”

He caught the belligerent demeanor then. It did not escape him either that her foot was practically floored his, and either he had to flip the table by asserting dominance back or gave in, it would proceed the way _she_ wanted. He shook his head, feeling amused and impressed at the same time. _Such a fire rabbit,_ he thought again. With the same straight face he merely lifted the leg she nailed with her foot, causing her to gasp a little for not anticipating the move. _Without_ removing her leg or asserting dominance back by arching into her direction closer, he simply continued moving; her foot still rested on his boot that he practically _swung_ her back and forth _off_ the ground. “Tell me more about it.”

Again, there was the same fire which flared her cheeks like prior. Somehow she was unable to look at him; somehow she noticed his prowess this time if not begrudgingly admired it. He managed to take on her by refusing to be drawn into her game and now she had to depend on him because he regained control and that he would have to be kind enough to keep her afloat lest she fell onto the ground. “Your Spartan life is a lie,” she fumed. “I’m not saying your marital pursuits were for naught—but the moment you returned, everything would stay the same for you.”

“And how might that be?”

“The comfort,” she hissed. “The comfort befitting a person of significant noble birth.”

Significant—she said it. And he knew what it meant, looking back at his own mother. “I never claimed I’m better,” he tried again. “What I hope you to see is that I know.”

“And does it change anything?” she shot him another displeased look, and as uncanny as it sounded, he was curious—how on earth this fire rabbit kept a collection of various sour look for different occasions? “You came home to your comfortable bed, being attended to by servants. You would be a lord again, and I’m sure when it happened you no longer ate what your soldiers ate.”

“That’s—“

“That _is_ right and I am right!” she smiled triumphantly again. “Uh—my lord.”

He lost it.

He completely lost it. He threw his head backwards, serenading her with sincere tender chuckles upon hearing her awkward addendum of his title for the—oh, he lost count. He truly lost count because he had been looking into her eyes, alright, juggling between feeling impressed, amused, and restless at the same time. Her eyes were also green like her hair, which, surprisingly made a nice combination when paired with her sun-kissed complexion. She was an unusual beauty, this seamstress—in the decadent where blushy-fair complexion and blond hair were preferable, so much that women who had the means to would even dye their hair and whitened their skin to mirror the faces captured in paintings.

“Where in the northern outskirts you reside, specifically?” he asked, noticing that somehow she averted her gaze from his, now focused on the ground where her foot still nailed his. “I’m a warrior first and pompous blueblood last,” he replied in a simple manner. “I map my field before I’m out to fight.”

“… The Worker’s Alley,” she mumbled, quickly taking a step as if she just remembered that she was supposed to be taking control back instead of joining the crowd as the marquis’ admirer. With that in mind she moved her arms, taunting him at his own face.

“And what do people who live there usually do? Why is it called like that—how much do you and your neighbors typically earn?” he simply held up his arm to follow her. He might be bad at dancing, yet she was not, and mirroring her moves actually taught him to move better.

“I don’t really know, honestly,” she said, withdrawing purposefully, taunting him again—this time signaling for him to take control instead so she could feast on his awkwardness and inferior dancing skill. “First, I don’t ask how much money other people have. Second, I didn’t originally come from—“

He waited. Yet she halted her own words, looking rather disturbed like she had an inner turmoil of cussing herself for even blurting it out. “You are not from the Worker’s Alley?”

“I am! I-it’s just…”

“Miss, I _hate_ liars,” he commented sharply. “And people lied to me today. You don’t need to join them.”

“I’m not lying to you, my lord,” she murmured. “I live there. But I’m also an outsider in Agustria…”

“And does it explain why you conceal a dagger under your chemise?”

“I—pardon?”

“You lifted your arms at my face—why, the blade tip nearly stabbed you in the chest?” he shrugged. “Because you don’t want me noticing you are fixing your clothes?”

“But—how!”

“I told you I’m a warrior first and a blueblood second,” the marquis shot her a flat reply. “Well?”

“You carry a sword in broad daylight everywhere—there, at your waist,” she shot back.

“I see. For protection, then?”

She did not answer.

“… Did something happen beforehand that you thought it was necessary to be armed when you are out?”

She looked at him—again and again. And her glance fell onto the ground.

“Pardon, Miss. I did not intend to cause discomfort,” the marquis followed up his own question when it was clear that she was not keen on answering. And his tone was surprisingly gentle. “If the roads are not safe, you can bet that both my father and I will change that.”

“Most men usually carry a sword,” she murmured.

“Most female travelers usually don’t,” he returned the line. “If you plan on keeping that dagger, hide it somewhere else. Somewhere convenient enough for you to reach but easily concealable. If you wear a belt, for example—or if the dress has a pocket, or if you would strap it under your gown instead.”

“Dresses are a hassle to work on, my lord,” she responded. “Sometimes it was as if the beauty was crafted with confining women’s movement in mind.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” the corner of his mouth twitched—again. “Because I wouldn’t dream of going through a lady’s clothing articles like that.”

“I suppose…” she waved awkwardly. “Hold on. You are not going to ask me to disarm?”

“No.”

“But—!”

“You can’t use it,” he replied with a straight face.

“… Nice to be reminded of my inferiority,” she grumbled.

“And exactly why you need to keep it with you,” he nodded, surprising her. “Be careful though, a polished dagger is as vicious as a razor. Do you cook?”

She gave him a small nod, still processing what happened. The marquis _knew_ she concealed a dagger. He even knew she could not properly wield it. And he let her keep the dagger still. “Eh—life skill, my lord.”

“Then should you need to wield it, hold it like this,” he made a small demonstration with his own hand. “Four fingers on the hilt, your thumb securing the hilt’s tip for easier grappling. Need a powerful stab, move that thumb across said fingers like a balled fist. Do not hold it like a kitchen knife—dead angle.”

She blinked. The marquis just—just taught her… to fight?

“Right. Like this,” innocently he took her hand to make her do the grip he instructed. The dance score began to fade away as the music concluded itself. By the time the last viol completed its musical journey, she simply stood where she did, contemplating the marquis’ hand enveloping hers.

It seemed that fate dictated she was to be made surprised multiple times that day, because his touches were not only respectful, but… gentle. She noticed people began to murmur instead of laughing or chattering. Fiddles were rested the way musical instruments were being put to sleep. The interlude allowed musicians to take a breather as well as those who danced to grab refreshments, but the vacuum drew people’s attention to him—or rather, her, for the crowd had caught them in the most unfortunate moment. “M-Marquis Ares, my lord—“

He tilted his head, finding the crowd gasping and staring at him. Unexpected to her again, he simply bowed to her, raising her hand which he still clutched. He nodded at her, tipping his hat, redoing that gentlemanly salute. “I thank you for this dance,” he said simply before bringing her hand down.

“I uh—thank you for the tips,” she replied awkwardly when his fingertips accidentally brushed hers.

“Then I thank you for securing my feather,” he smiled faintly, gesturing at his hat.

“The marquis… and—that one over there…” people murmured and whispered, with some even hiding their face behind a fan as if they just saw something obscure.

“Ares?” another voice interfered, revealing the Lionheart with Duchess Nordion at his arm.

“There you are, my cub. Goodness, will you stop running away…” the duchess muttered; her voice easily fell upon seeing her being acquainted with her son. Not only that—he held her hand like that! Was this the same Ares who was all sulky and sullen when being told he had to be nice and smile to the noblewomen they invited to the party?

“Mother,” the marquis blurted sheepishly, scratching his head. “Well, I found this rabbit…”

She reflexively kicked his shin, gasping even louder after realizing what she just did—to the widened eyes of the Lionheart’s and the duchess who appeared more confused than flummoxed. “Umm—D-Duke Eldigan, Your Grace?” she dropped into a curtsy.

“I am. And you are, young lady?” the Lionheart retained his composure, however, answering with that trademark serene calmness he would do in public. If only the environment was more relaxed he would have smirked. Of course he caught that—the young lady just kicked his cub’s shin the way his own wife would pinch his earlobe when he misbehaved.

“She wouldn’t tell, so,” the marquis replied on behalf of her. “Since she wouldn’t, rabbit it is then.”

“Hnnn! I am not, a rabbit, you lion cub—the name’s Le—“

“There she is, my lords!” the courtier hurriedly came forward, tailed by the knight the marquis knocked out. “She seduced His Lordship to get inside. Why, she might seek gratification from Marquis Ares!”

“She had those suspicious sandwiches, I swear on me mother!” the knight screamed. “When I asked her to eat them, she backpedaled. What is it if not suspicious? Then His Lordship punched me.”

“And I’ll do so again, gladly,” the marquis glared. “The lady meant no harm.”

“My lord!”

“Are you suggesting that I’m so incompetent that I cannot take care of myself in a fight—against one opponent who could not even kick me properly?” oh, the cub _approached_ now. “Fie away. Ridiculous.”

“Why, Your Lordship, it’s possible to be distorted by a pretty view still!”

“Even more brazen, then, dear Mama—is this how knights treat a beautiful lady?”

That practically sent the crowd into a deep, deep awkward silence until Duke Eldigan cleared his throat. “How many hours have it passed since you ate the sandwiches—what did you put inside?”

“Maybe—maybe one or two hours, Your Grace?” the girl squeaked. “And fruit jam made of leftover apples and grapes I glazed with brown sugar. Pure white sugar is—expensive, Duke Eldigan, Your Grace.” The crowd sent her a meaningful look while the courtiers cornered her again.

“I see. Gentlemen—if the lady aimed to kill me, then I would have been dead,” the duke remarked wisely. “Likewise, if she aimed to kill my son—tough luck, Ares _detests_ sweet foods like a nemesis.”

“… I whole-heartedly thank Your Grace,” she whispered, dropping into a curtsy, withdrawing…

… And the marquis could see the fire in her eyes slowly dissipated, replaced by a pool of—fear. Right, fear—fear emanated from those green eyes he had taken quite a liking to gaze into. He expected to see wildfire, and yet she suddenly changed into displaying a deferring manner, and that… concerned him. He wanted to reach for her hand, somehow—telling her to stay, telling her that he _understood_ ; the look was similar to a couple of looks his own mother spared when a foreign dignitary was being forceful towards her, taking advantage of the Lionheart’s absence after being informed that it was only his frail, sickly wife who would be there to meet him.

… And the look that cloaked dancer had when those lyceum boys began to throw insults at her…

Thus he could only stop when the girl reflexively took her hand, clasping it in front of her chest as she took her leave with her head held low. Such view gave him discomfort, somehow—she was fierce, she was dignified, but her spirit broke after facing the fact that she was a commoner still, and regardless of the ridiculous accusation about her attempting to assassinate the royal family, he caught her simple answer—sugar was expensive! Hell, even if she aimed to kill him, she could not even procure her murder weapon by glazing her poison with a kitchen essential she could not buy!

He could only follow her departure with his eyes—she left without looking back, her steps did not sway or stagger under the judging look people subjected her into. She did not say anything when the courtier shot her an angry investigative look, but the moment the soldier who searched her hissed, she nearly jumped off her feet like a wary rabbit.

And that angered him somehow. Was it because she was a commoner? Or…

 _She is a woman. That is the root there_ , as Princess Altena put it to him.

“Ares, we need to talk,” Duke Eldigan interjected, sensing that his cub would pounce against that soldier again like a springing lion.

The marquis could only nod, silently following the Lionheart from behind. Glancing around he found his mother clutching on his arm, her fingers digging deeper than the usual way she would hold him. Sighing, he followed, anyway, returning to the royal seating, receiving silent inquiring look from Earl Seliph, Prince Leif, and Princess Altena.

But everything pertaining the seamstress from prior had to be real, because he still kept the black napkin under his coat—and the Devil be damned, he did not tell anyone that he actually liked it.


End file.
